Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [87]
“God be with you, Mohammed Khan,” Jane said. Without pausing to let him reply, she went on: “When did you get back?”
“Today,” he replied automatically.
She squatted on her haunches like them. They were too astonished to say anything. She spread out her maps on the floor. The three men leaned forward reflexively to look at them: already they were forgetting Jane’s breach of etiquette. “Look,” she said. “The Russians have advanced this far—am I right?” She retraced the line Ellis had shown her.
Mohammed nodded agreement.
“So the regular convoy route is blocked.”
Mohammed nodded again.
“What is the best way out now?”
They all looked dubious and shook their heads. This was normal: when talking of difficulties, they liked to make a meal of it. Jane thought it was because their local knowledge was the only power they had over foreigners such as she. Usually she was tolerant, but today she had no patience. “Why not this way?” she asked peremptorily, drawing a line parallel with the Russian front.
“Too close to the Russians,” said Mohammed.
“Here, then.” She traced a more careful route, following the contours of the land.
“No,” he said again.
“Why not?”
“Here—” He pointed to a place on the map, between the heads of two valleys, where Jane had blithely run her finger over a mountain range. “Here there is no saddle.” A saddle was a pass.
Jane outlined a more northerly route. “This way?”
“Worse still.”
“There must be another way out!” Jane cried. She had a feeling they were enjoying her frustration. She decided to say something mildly offensive, to liven them up a bit. “Is this country a house with one door, cut off from the rest of the world just because you cannot get to the Khyber Pass?” The phrase the house with one door was a euphemism for the privy.
“Of course not,” said Mohammed stiffly. “In summer there is the Butter Trail.”
“Show me.”
Mohammed’s finger traced a complex route which began due east of the Valley, proceeding through a series of high passes and dried-up rivers, then turned north into the Himalayas, and finally crossed the border near the entrance to the uninhabited Waikhan Corridor before swinging southeast to the Pakistani town of Chitral. “This is how the people of Nuristan take their butter and yogurt and cheese to market in Pakistan.” He smiled and touched his round cap. “That is where we get the hats.” Jane recalled that they were called Chitrali caps.
“Good,” said Jane. “We will go home that way.”
Mohammed shook his head. “You cannot.”
“And why not?”
Kahmir and Matullah gave knowing smiles. Jane ignored them. After a moment Mohammed said: “The first problem is the altitude. This route goes above the ice line. That means the snow never melts, and there is no running water, even in summer. Second is the landscape. The hills are very steep and the paths are narrow and treacherous. It is hard to find your way: even local guides get lost. But the worst problem of all is the people. That region is called Nuristan, but it used to be called Kafiristan, because the people were unbelievers, and drank wine. Now they are true believers, but still they cheat, rob and sometimes murder travelers. This route is no good for Europeans, impossible for women. Only the youngest and strongest men can use it—and even then, many travelers are killed.”
“Will you send convoys that way?”
“No. We will wait until the southerly route is reopened.”
She studied his handsome face. He was not exaggerating, she could tell: he was being dryly factual. She stood up and began to shuffle the maps together. She was bitterly disappointed. Her return home was postponed indefinitely. The strain of life in the Valley suddenly seemed insupportable, and she felt like crying.
She rolled her maps into a cylinder and forced herself to be polite. “You were away a long time,” she said to Mohammed.
“I went to Faizabad.”
“A long trip.” Faizabad was a large town in the far north. The Resistance was very strong there: the army