She heated more water for when Tristan would need his bandages changed, and prepared bean paste for them both. Once she was done, there was little left to do but wait.
His small black pistol lay in the bundle of his cast-off uniform. Ariya licked her lips. Tristan would surely hit her or even kill her if he saw her touch it; but he was still deep asleep. Quietly she knelt and picked it up. Her father had showed her how to use his old rifle when she was six; carefully she opened the action just to be safe, and nearly dropped the pistol in shock.
The chamber was empty. The magazine was empty too. Tristan had pointed an unloaded weapon at her, before. Ariya felt the blood drain from her face. How can he shoot Imran without bullets?
“Your gun is empty.” She said it accusingly, unable to stop herself.
Tristan shrugged. He had slept through the night, waking at dawn and hobbling to the latrine with muttered curses. Now he was lying back on the cushions, eating slowly. “I used my bullets in the fight. I did not have many. We did not want to be seen, so no rifles, no more magazines.”
Ariya slammed down her metal plate, her ice-blue eyes flashing. “But what about Imran? You said you would kill him! And now he’s going to kill you and me both!”
She felt her eyes sting. Grimacing, she wiped her eyes, then stared openmouthed at the tears dampening her fingers. It was the first time she had cried since Zahra had been strangled, more than a year ago. Suddenly she was sobbing, her thin body shuddering; ashamed, she tried to stifle her cries, but they only became louder. She rose to flee to the bedroom.
“Ariya.”
He said it firmly, as a command, in a hard voice that compelled obedience. She froze. He reached up, wincing in pain, and shockingly took her hand and pulled her back to a seated position. His hand was rough and callused, and she could feel its strength. He stared at her until satisfied that she would stay, then let go. She pulled her hand back toward her chest, sniffling.
“What is the most powerful weapon, Ariya?” he said, still in that hard voice. “Not a gun. What?” She hiccupped and shook her head. He pointed at his temple. “It is this. And this,” and he pointed at her head. “A gun is just one tool. If I want to, I can fight with many tools. But I have to want to, to know it in my head. In your head too.”
She shook her head again, suddenly terrified, and he leaned forward. “Yes, Ariya. You too. My wounds hurt; what if I’m—” He paused, then said in English something like enfektid. “What if I’m sick? What if your husband kills me? What are you going to do? Lie down and die?”
Why am I so scared? Shame slithered deep into her belly. Isn’t this what I’ve been hoping for? Haven’t I spent three years hoping for a way to kill Imran? Or was that all just an act? She firmed her jaw. No. I am not a coward!
Tristan saw the change in her face and nodded. “Okay. Now see, there are many weapons in this house. Knives. Wooden poles. Even your pots and pans. It is not easy; if your husband has a gun, you will have to hit him from behind. But you finish the mission, Ariya. You always finish the mission, always. There is always something more to do, some other way to fight. Because you have no choice, Ariya. We win or we die.”
Ariya breathed heavily. After an eternity, she rose and retrieved the carving knife from the cramped kitchen. Her hand trembled on the hilt. Could I really have killed him myself, all this time? In a small voice she said, “Teach me how to use this.”
It was Wednesday evening. Tristan was getting stronger, but his wounds had acquired an angry red color around the edges and were hot to the touch. Ariya cleaned them again and again, until the pile of bloody cloths was nearly a foot high, but it seemed not to help. The American did not complain, but she could see in his eyes that he was worried. Sipping cool water carefully, still lying on the floor, he said in his rough Kurmanji, “We have to take an auto and go, while I can still drive.”
“How?” Ariya turned up her hands. “You can’t walk very far, and we have no good way to steal someone else’s car without being caught. It has to be Imran’s Jeep.”
Tristan grimaced. “Then your husband needs to come soon.”
“Stop calling him my husband!” Ariya flared up suddenly. “He’s a murdering kidnapping pimp! He may have taken me into his bed, but he is not my husband! ”
“You called him that first,” Tristan said, and raised an eyebrow.
She flushed and looked down. “Well, I shouldn’t have.” The words echoed in her mind and she repeated more softly, “I shouldn’t have.”
The American gazed at her, then smiled approvingly. “Good.”
That afternoon when he tried standing up, his injured leg buckled beneath him and he pitched forward onto his face. Ariya cried out; Tristan grunted and forced himself to his knees but could not stand again. His face was sweaty and red. Ariya brought over his cushions and a blanket and gave him food and water, a queasy knot forming in her stomach. He’s very sick. There’s no way he can beat Imran like this. He might lose consciousness before Imran even gets back. A sudden thought chilled her. What if Imran doesn’t come back? What if he’s been killed or wounded in combat? That means no Jeep. Maybe I can find another way to escape, but it won’t be soon enough to save Tristan. He needs to get back to the Peshmerga soon, or he’ll die. Melek Tawuse, help us now!
Melek Tawuse apparently had a dark sense of humor. The low, heavy growl of Imran’s Jeep suddenly reached her ears, along with the crunch of tires on gravel in front of the house. Ariya’s pulse hammered in her ears. He’s early! She looked around the house wildly, seeing the pile of bandages against the wall, the discarded plates scattered over the floor, the pot of saltwater boiling on the stove — and most of all the groaning American stretched out in the middle of the floor.
Her wits frenzied, she grabbed a large white bloodstained sheet and threw it over Tristan, covering his whole body. “Lie still,” she hissed. “Quiet.” The sheet sank to the floor, contouring itself to his body. It was still obviously a person under the sheet, but maybe it was a dead person and hence not a threat. Not something Imran would expect, anyway.
Footsteps came up to the door, and the lock rattled. “Wife!” Imran called. “I’m back!” He sounded surly; perhaps the battle had gone against Daesh. Ariya’s chest seemed to freeze. Panting, she snatched up the carving knife with one hand and a heavy ceramic jar with the other and ran soundlessly behind the bedroom doorway.
The front door swung open. “Wife!” Imran called again, striding into the house, his shoulders slumped with weariness, his camouflaged robe stained with sweat and mud. Then his eyes registered the sheet-covered body, and he stopped dead. “Wha—” He stiffened and lifted his AK-47. Without looking away from Tristan’s body, he called again, “Wife!” Ariya said nothing, vomit rising in the back of her throat, her hands sweaty. Her heart was beating so fast, it felt as though it would burst.
Imran took a careful step closer to Tristan, his rifle trained on the center of the American’s body. God, let him stay still! Ariya thought. Imran took another step. Then Ariya leapt around the door frame and hurled the jar with all of her strength, right at Imran’s head.