Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [122]
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 on 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