Zahra had been foolish, Ariya thought with a pang. She got him angry.
“Morning of goodness, my wife.” Imran was up. He was short and had a pale, pinched face; his dark hair was close-cropped, but his beard was long and stringy. When he was given the girl Ariya as a wife, Imran had been eighteen.
Ariya flinched minutely. “Morning of light, ba’ali,” she replied in her now familiar Arabic, using the word that meant both “my husband” and “my master.” Imran insisted on it, no doubt to flaunt his power over her. (Most native Arabic-speakers would have used zawji instead, but Imran had grown up in a place he called Biljika, in Europe, and learned Arabic late.) “Breakfast is ready.”
They ate silently, cross-legged on the bare floor. Imran did not believe in luxuries. On the rare occasions that Ariya could talk to the other wives in the village, they sometimes gossiped about Islamic State fighters who engaged in fusuq by drinking alcohol or listening to Western music; but Imran was a true ascetic. When he was not on duty, he was usually kneeling on the floor, reciting haltingly from the Qur’an or the Hadith. Ariya was glad, because it meant that she only had to worry about his moods during meals — and at night.
When he was finished, Imran rose, went to the closet, and slung his battered AK-47 over his shoulder. “My company is going out today,” he announced. “We will not return until Thursday, maybe later.”
That meant a combat operation. “May you find victory over the enemies of Allah,” Ariya replied mechanically as she rose to her feet. I hope you die, she thought to herself without changing expression.
“Clean the house while I am gone,” Imran said. “Study the Surah of the Cave and be ready to recite it for me by heart when I return.”
“Nothing would please me more, ba’ali.” She despised reading the Qur’an. Ariya had been an indifferent Yazidi at best in her youth, but the book of her tormenters was like ashes in her mouth.
“Do not leave the house except to go to the market.”
He would check on her with the neighbors, of course. She would have no freedom at all, even while out of his sight! Her stomach churned at the thought. “Ba’ali,” Ariya said, “I will need to gather herbs in the hills.” She hesitated, bracing herself, then continued. “Money is scarce and we have little food left—”
He struck her across the face with his fist, as she knew he would. “Do not speak to me about money!” he snarled. Ariya fell back against the wall and made a show of whimpering in pain, which was not difficult; satisfied with this display of his power, Imran said, “Gather in the hills, then. But be back before dusk.”
Good. Now I can get some fresh air. Ariya had become skilled at exploiting Imran’s temper, by necessity. A few more hurts done to her battered body were a small price to pay sometimes.
Ariya waited an hour after Imran left, scrubbing the pots and sweeping the floors, checking that the door was locked and the window shuttered and tensely counting the seconds. Then, when she was sure he was truly gone, she stripped off her stifling sack of a dress and flung it into the corner of the room with a curse. Melek Tawuse, she prayed, not knowing or caring if anyone was listening; Give me strength to be free!
In her underclothes, Ariya bent down and heaved herself into a handstand, holding the position for almost two minutes until her corded arms were trembling violently and sweat dripped down her face onto the bare floor. Then she did squats; then a plank, moving from one exercise to another with savage focus. When she had first been captured, Ariya knew she was too weak to resist; since then, every chance she got she would do strength training. It made her thin as a rail but tightly wound with muscle. Perhaps one day she would be strong enough to kill Imran and escape.
(She had heard that overexercising made it harder to conceive. Good; the thought of carrying that monster’s child was abhorrent, and Ariya did everything she could to prevent it — exercise, herbs, disguising her cycles. If Imran ever succeeded in impregnating her, Ariya might just kill herself.)
When she was too worn out to continue, Ariya ate from her secret stash of parched grain, throwing a handful to the chickens in back when she was full. The rest of the day she spent practicing baking cigar-nut pastries, which she had heard were Imran’s favorite. In the evening she read from the Surah of the Cave, laboriously committing the hated words to memory.
The next day was the same, Ariya not yet willing to risk leaving the house. But on Monday the food ran out; she had to get more or go hungry. She swaddled herself in the abaya, took her canvas satchel, and headed for the hillside overlooking the village to the east. She took one of Imran’s robes with her; I’ll need a way to wipe off if I get muddy, she thought spitefully.
The day was cool, and a biting wind pierced all her layers of clothing. The scents of early spring rose from the moist earth around her. As she picked herbs, gratefully munching on sweet grasses as she went, Ariya could almost imagine that Imran didn’t exist, that the Islamic State didn’t exist, and that she was still a child of twelve gathering flowers for her mother. Can’t think like that. Can’t lose control. I am fifteen and a grown woman, and I have only myself to rely on.
The sudden crack-crack of gunfire. Ariya flinched and threw herself to the earth, squeezing her eyes shut. Then she swore; the gunfire was back in town. You stupid coward. Now your clothes are dirty. The shooting continued, the dull chattering bark of AK-47s along with the higher crackle of pistol fire. Faint shouts reached her ears, Arabic intermixed with something else, and Ariya’s eyes widened. Kurmanji? Are those Kurds? For a second a wild hope that she had never allowed herself to feel rose up in her chest. She ran heedlessly down the hill slope.
Most of the mujahideen had gone with Imran, but there were still some left in the village. Three of them were making their way around houses on the edge of the village, calling to one another and firing their rifles as they advanced. One mujahid staggered and fell; Ariya nearly let out a whoop before catching herself. Yet the others continued forward; the firing went on, but by the time Ariya reached the bottom of the hill, it had petered to a halt. Then came the cries of “Allahu akbar!” and Ariya’s stomach knotted. Sudden tears burst from her blue eyes. The Peshmerga couldn’t have killed all of them so quickly. Those are Islamic State cries, not Kurds.
Her rescuers were dead. No one would save her. No one even knew she was alive, probably. She was trapped here forever. Ariya squeezed her fists shut. Stop it, stop it, stop it! She would never escape Imran. She was being childish when she thought she could. Stop it!
When she finally worked up the courage to walk back into the village, Ariya passed seven bodies that had been covered with bloodied sheets and laid out in a row, just outside the marketplace. Four looked like Islamic State fighters, judging from their thin tan hiking shoes, which stuck out from under the sheets. Three, wearing thicker boots with stiff rubber soles, were not. God, give these poor men their rest, Ariya thought, and averted her eyes.