“Daastaani toolani va ghamgin ra bayad be to begooyam…”
“It is long and sad story,” the girl translates. “Beghum Madar is from village where everything began. She survived and knows what happened. She wants to save our leader’s soul.”
Beghum Madar continues. Slowly, her voice becomes more forceful, as if gripped by powerful emotions, while at other times she falls silent, giving the impression that she is telling a story that is hard for her to bear. After a few minutes, the girl speaks up again in an almost humble voice, as if she reinstates words of immense importance.
“Colonel not permitting to talk about our village. But she knows what killed our people. It is still there. Beghum Madar wants you to find it. Colonel is not letting warriors to go there, but you can. She will tell you where it is. You will find it and bring it to him. This is price of your life.”
“If so, that warrior should have left my friend alive. He was innocent, and could have helped me find that thing!”
“Scavengers are not innocent,” she replies without bothering to translate his words to the Beghum. “They are not warriors.”
“The hell they aren’t—” Tarasov begins.
“Quiet!” the girl commands. “You speak bad words. Your friend was a weak man.” Her angry eyes pierce into Tarasov’s but he withstands her look.
“Squirrel was as good as any of your… warriors!”
“Our warriors fight for honor, not money and loot like scavengers.” The girl’s voice softens as she turns her eyes away. Tarasov doesn’t answer back. Inside his heart, he admits to himself that the girl has a point.
“You also not fight for such things, soldier. You fight for something else. When Beghum Madar was looking to your face, she saw shadow of death in your eyes.”
Tarasov frowns. “Please… what is your name?”
“You need not know my name.”
“Whoever you are, I beg you: tell Beghum Madar that I am just a soldier from a land far away, trying to find some lost people.”
She translates his words. While answering, the Bhegum looks at Tarasov with eyes that seem able to penetrate into his soul.
“You were an ordinary soldier once perhaps,” the girl translates, “but what you have seen has changed you. Not here. Long before you came to our land you met death. Beghum Madar sees that you cannot breathe the air of peace. You came from a place that signed… no, marked you with love of danger. This is why you can find our leader’s… medicine.” Uncertain if she has used the right word, the girl exchanges a few quick sentences with Beghum Madar. “It is something he has to see. It will give him peace.”
“What exactly do I need to find?”
“You will find it close to Shibar Pass. Turn south from road and look for village in the valley. Beghum Madar says, you will find a big car with white color on a hill.”
“Your men took everything from me. How am I supposed to do this?”
“I told you: you are now guest of Beghum Madar. Before you leave, everything will be given back to you. But until then you must stay in this house and not go outside. Now rest. Beghum Madar is tired, too. She wants you to leave.”
“But… how can I leave when I must stay here?”
She translates his words.
“Marde shayesteyee baraye to khahad bood.” Beghum Madar replies directly to her, not Tarasov who looks from one woman to the other without a clue. Her voice is hard and commanding. “Be harhaal hich marde dighari to ra nemikhahad!”
The young woman blushes and covers her scar in shame.
“Be entekhab man etemad kon, dokhtra.”
Beghum Madar’s last words must have been comforting, because when the young woman looks at Tarasov again, the coldness vanishes from her green eyes. She looks him up and down with a mixture of anticipation and hesitation.
“Beghum Madar… my mother says you have blood of true warrior,” she murmurs, “and you will stay in my room… because tonight you will make me mother of a warrior.”
This is not happening to me.
The girl leads him into a small room furnished only by a thick, woolen mat. Rays of sunlight lance inside through splits in the crude shutters that cover the arched window and reflect off of dust motes as they perform their slow, swirling dance. An opening in the wall, covered by a colorful curtain, leads to a smaller chamber.
“Rest here for now,” she says. “You will need your strength.” She gives him a cotton towel and a piece of soap. To Tarasov, in his grimy condition, they smell pure like heaven. “Behind curtain, there is a room with more water to wash yourself. Beghum Madar will bring you food. I come later.”
She shuts the door, and the major hears a heavy lock being engaged. He feels as if he is a prisoner once more.
Dark rain pours down. It would be filthy weather to be out in, but Tarasov is resting his head on the desk in the command room, feeing such an exhaustion that he had never experienced before. He wonders why the view outside doesn’t resemble the Cordon. The lush vegetation has disappeared and the barren hills are full of crevasses from which herds of small mutants stream like ants.
I am back in the Zone. My Zone.
The thought brings him some relief, though he shudders; it is cold in the command room. Through the rain, the drab apartment blocks of Kiev loom beyond the hills.
I am home.
But the watch rosters and maps are gone from the wall, a ragged carpet hangs there instead. Memories from the New Zone flash into his mind.
I want to be back there. The old Zone has let me down. It is not my Zone anymore and I don’t belong there. I want the New Zone. I want its rage, its darkness, its mysteries.
The light goes out and the window’s frame blurs, slowly narrowing and assuming an arched shape. He hears a female voice from above.
I am here.
Tarasov gives a start. Looking around, he realizes he is in the Beghum’s house, in the Tribe’s stronghold, somewhere in the new Zone that had been once Afghanistan. He relaxes with odd, unexpected relief.
“I am here,” the female voice insists. “Wake up!”
Now he sees the girl, a lamp and a jug in her hands, and his heart starts beating fast.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“I not tell… yet. Stand up.”
Her words are authoritative but she speaks with a softness in her voice that Tarasov wouldn’t have expected. Getting up, he sees that she barely reaches up to his chest. As she removes the tattered camouflage shirt from his shoulders, her fingers touch his skin, stirring excitement throughout his body. She stands close enough to let him detect the sweet aroma of female sweat, mixed with a strange scent that reminds him of pomegranates with a hint of wood smoke. She takes a small sponge from the jug and pours a balm-like liquid over his shoulders and chest. The salve emanates a spicy scent, pungent and pleasant in equal measure.
“What is this?” he whispers.
“An ointment,” she replies, moistening his skin with gentle strokes. “I prepared it myself from herbal oil and powder of glowing stone.”
“Glowing stone? You mean, an artifact? A swag?”
“No… it is from stones of Samal.”
“Samal?”
“Guardian of lost valley.”
“Tell me more…”
“No.”
As his coarse skin absorbs the salve, Tarasov is aware of a relaxed sensation in his muscles, as if they are thawing from inner warmth. It is pleasing but strangely unnatural. He feels her touch becoming more and more sensual with every stroke of her hand.