The Linnet Bird: A Novel (57 page)

Finally we stopped at the edge of a dark forest. The Pathan raised his chin at a huge conifer, and I sat under it. The moss was spongy and cool. I put my head on it and slept. When I awoke a fire crackled in the small clearing. The Pathan came to me, holding out a small steaming bird on a stick. It was well cooked, its skin brown and crackly.

“What is it?” I asked, not really caring, not knowing why I asked.

He said a Hindi word I didn’t know. I saw a second bird, lying beside the fire; it was still feathered, and a heavy vine was wound tightly about its neck.

“I think it’s a grouse,” I said in English. I bit into the savory flesh, grease smearing my lips and running down my chin. I chewed, watching the Pathan expertly plucking the second bird. By the time he was roasting it over the fire, I felt myself falling asleep again, the bones of the bird still in my hand.

I awoke some time during the night, my legs stiff and cramped but my shoulder, for the first time, not paining with the same intensity. The Pathan sat behind the flickering fire. The small, dancing flames heightened his cheekbones and accentuated the fullness of his lips. He appeared to be staring at me, but perhaps not. Perhaps he only looked at the fire, the blaze reflected in his eyes.

I closed my own eyes again, falling once more into a deep motionless sleep, and when I awoke again the next morning, I wasn’t sure whether I had really seen the Pathan looking at me or whether I had dreamed it.

A
S
I
STIRRED
in the dappled sunlight coming through the low branches of the trees, every bone in my body screamed. All evidence of the fire was gone, and neither the Pathan nor Rasool was in sight. For one second I panicked, and tried to stand.

My legs threatened to buckle at my sudden awkward rising, and I had to grab on to one of the spiky, fragrant branches to keep from falling. As I straightened, slowly, I gingerly flexed my left arm. I could lift it now. I explored the crust of mud on the back of my shoulder with my right hand and felt the tender wound. When I pulled my fingers away, there was no fresh blood.

My clothes felt as stiff as my body; they were encrusted with dirt and pine needles, and the whole front of my dress was spotted with grease from the grouse I had devoured. I tried walking a few steps. The insides of my thighs were bruised and tender, and my drawers pulled against my body in a sticky, distressing way, as if my courses had come, but it was too early for them. I went behind the conifer to relieve myself, and realized my drawers were stuck to me with pus and blood. The skin of my bottom had been rubbed raw from riding the horse.

I hobbled back to the clearing, and the Pathan suddenly appeared from between two trees, leading Rasool. “We will find water in two hours,” he said, “and will reach the camp by nightfall.”

I nodded, coming toward him. I saw him watch the way I walked, my legs stiffly held apart from each other. I didn’t look at him as he put me on the horse.

By the time we reached the next stream, I didn’t know how I would ride any farther. I slid down and walked to the water, barely shuffling my feet. When I tried to squat at the water’s edge to drink, I couldn’t stop the moan that came out.

The Pathan said nothing. But as he swung me up, and I spread my legs and came down heavily on Rasool’s hard, wide back, I felt blisters break open and weep. I involuntarily and loudly sucked in my breath and tried to shift my weight.

“Why do you cry out?” he asked. “Does the pain of your shoulder worsen?”

“No. It’s not my shoulder,” I said.

“You can ride?”

I nodded, but saw him studying my face.

“We have many more hours. You must tell me if you cannot ride.”

I nodded. “Could I—I need to sit . . .” I knew no Hindi word for sidesaddle. I swung one leg over, wincing. “If I can sit like this, it will be better.”

He shook his head, looking at the sky. “We have not made time as quickly as I hoped. Because of the extra weight for Rasool. Ahead is a difficult trail. You cannot stay on in that position, with no saddle. Why do you wish this?”

I slid off. I didn’t want to have to admit to this dark stranger that my flesh was oozing with unbearable blisters. I put my hands on the back of my skirt. “I have never ridden—so. Like a man. It hurts my skin.”

He made a sound of disgust in his throat. “Take this, then, and sit on it.” He unwound his sash. “There is no time for this behavior, this
ferenghi
modesty,” he said when I hesitated. He pushed the sash into my hands.

Staring at him, I folded the sash into a thick bundle, and hiking up my skirt at the back, tucked the padded wool into my drawers. Then I nodded at him, and he put me back on Rasool.

The sash protected my torn bottom enough to ease the worst of the discomfort. No longer having the sash to hold, I had no option but to grip the Pathan’s waist. He urged Rasool on at a gallop, but only for a short while. Soon I saw the peak of a mountain against the brilliant blue sky. Its base was hidden in mist. Dots of huge fir trees and boulders grew visible. Rasool was forced to a slow climb up a stony hill, higher and higher. The air grew cooler. And then the descent was steep, although brief, and as Rasool picked his way down, his legs stiff and his hooves loosening pebbly chunks of earth that rolled down in front of us, gravity forced me to lean against the Pathan’s back. I put my cheek against his vest; I felt the vibration of his heart. He smelled of sweat and pine, horse and air.

I saw a patchwork of land in the plateau in front of us and beyond another set of foothills rose, their edges trembling, unformed. Finally the Pathan pulled Rasool to a halt. We were beside a lake ringed with willows. There was the sound of splashing, and I turned to find its source: a small waterfall at the far end of the narrow lake. Beneath Rasool’s feet the ground was sheeted with wild strawberries and columbines. The western sky flamed with orange and pink streaks behind green ranges. I thought of sketches and paintings of Switzerland I had seen in the travel books at the Lyceum. Even Simla’s beauty could not rival this. And yet this glorious scene was darkened by my endless thoughts of Faith. The pain of losing her shadowed my every moment. What was happening back in Simla because of my foolish desire to have an adventure?

“We will go no further tonight,” the Pathan said, interrupting my thoughts. “It is still a number of hours, and the route too treacherous in the dark.”

I clambered down.

“Wait here,” the Pathan said, then rode away.

I drank at the river, washing my hands and face, and as I stood, looking at the reflections of the rolling foothills in the still water, the Pathan returned, carrying a saddlebag embroidered with porcupine quills. He brushed leaves and twigs from it, and I assumed this was a familiar spot for him to camp, and he had left a cache for himself.

Leaving Rasool pulling at long grass, he crouched near me and pulled a clean white cloth out of the bag. He unwrapped it; a lump of hard white cheese was in it. He also pulled a knife out of the bag, and, cutting the cheese in half, gave one piece to me. He ate the other in a few bites. “The water is shallow and full of fish. You gather fruit,” he told me. Then he dug in his bag again and pulled out a small skin, folded and tied with a thong. He handed it to me, saying a word I didn’t understand. I looked at the small square. He took it and untied it, and I saw a dark gleaming substance. “It is for the horse, for cuts and injuries. Use it.” He pointed at my shoulder, and then my skirt.

I took it and walked toward a grove of low fruit trees. Some were blossoming, while others already bore small fruit. There was a gentle curve in the lake where the willow branches, with their tender young leaves, swept low over the almost transparent sapphire water. The verdant branches made a natural screen.

I looked back at the Pathan, but through the lattice of leaves all I could see was a flash of his white shirt as he moved about the shoreline. The cool water lapped quietly on the grassy sand. I unbuttoned my dress and stepped out of it. It was so covered with dirt and blood and grease that it was hardly recognizable as the simple crisp periwinkle frock I had put on—when? Two mornings ago. Two days ago . . . It was as if I had lived a lifetime since then. I stood in my chemise and petticoat, unbuttoned my high leather boots, and tugged them off with a sigh of relief, rolling down my stockings and pulling them off, too. I wiggled my toes in the warm loam, luxuriating in the softness.

There were still a few pins left in my hair, although it was a tangled mess. I yanked them out, dropping them into the sand. Then I pulled off my drawers and eased the Pathan’s sash away from my body. As I stood at the edge of the water with the warm evening air on my skin, a kingfisher swooped down over my head. I picked up my dress and drawers and stockings and put one foot into the water, then the other. The bottom of the lake was covered with small slimy stones and soft mud. I walked in, slowly. I had never been in a lake, or a river. I had never had more water on me than what a zinc or copper tub could hold. I went deeper, seeing my petticoat float up around me, a white disk. The cool water burned my raw blisters. When I was waist deep I let my dress and drawers and stockings drift on the surface of the water and ducked my head under, trying to pull the knots out of my hair with my fingers. Then I took my dress and scrubbed it as thoroughly as I could. I did the same to my stockings. The drawers were harder to clean, stiff with dried blood and pus.

At last I walked back up to shore and dried myself with the Pathan’s sash. I spread the smelly ointment on the crusted scab on the back of my shoulder as well as the open sores on my bottom. I wrung out my dress and got it back on with great difficulty over my wet chemise and petticoat. I left off my drawers and, carrying them along with my stockings and boots and the sash and the ointment, I walked back around the willows.

The Pathan was standing on a small boulder in the water a few feet from shore, working at the end of a narrow branch with his knife. Several fish already flopped senselessly at his feet, and as I watched, he suddenly raised the sharpened stick over his head, then stabbed it into the water with great force. Just as quickly he pulled it back, and on the end was a large wriggling fish, its iridescent scales smooth as metal. Then he gathered up the fish and nimbly hopped back over the rocks to the edge of the water.

I set down what I carried and quickly went to the spreading branches of the trees covered with small hard dark plums, gathering handfuls of them in my wet skirt.

The Pathan was now crouching, slicing the scaled fish into fillets on a flat rock, burying the heads and entrails in the sand. He glanced up as I walked nearer and watched me shake my skirt. The plums rolled onto the sand like small, hard stones. He reached into his boot and pulled out a flint. He set twigs and small bits of brush around the rock and lit a fire.

Later, we silently ate the flaky fish and the plums, as well as the tiny sweet strawberries that grew all around us. The Pathan built up the fire, and darkness fell around us. I held my feet to the fire, then put on my dry stockings and my boots.

I realized, suddenly, that I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t filthy. My shoulder throbbed only if I moved my arm too suddenly. I could sit almost comfortably by leaning on one hip. The only real and terrible pain I had was thinking about Faith. It was all my fault. If not for me she wouldn’t be dead. She would be in the garden of Constancia Cottage, reading. It was I who had allowed her to carry out her plan. I put my hand over my eyes. I had had one true friend in life and I had betrayed her.

Strange sounds were around us: small animals rustling in the underbrush, something larger circling us with cautious steps. There was the far-off warning cry of a jackal and the murmur of a night bird high overhead. Rasool gave a shuddering whinny, and the Pathan said something to him in a language I didn’t understand. The horse quieted, and I took my hand from my eyes.

“What do you speak?” I asked.

“The language of my people. Pashto.”

“But you know Hindi as well.”

“Hindi, Dari, Uzbek, Urdu, Kashmiri, Bengali, Punjabi. I have traveled widely within this country and my own. I can speak to anyone I might meet. Except the
ferenghi.
The foreigners. I choose not to learn their language, although some of their words collect within me, unbidden.” He raised his eyes from the fire. The swelling of his eye and lip were diminishing. “Your language.” He dropped his eyes again, but not before I saw something in them. Something that made me unafraid. Had I been afraid all this time, even though I’d boasted to the Pathan that I wasn’t? I don’t know. The haunting thoughts about Faith, the fever and pain, the uncertainty of what would happen—all had been part of my existence for the last few days. What did I feel now? If I could stop thinking about Faith, berating myself for not seeing the depth of her despair, for not recognizing her long and slow decline as more serious than a failure to adjust, I believe now that I would have realized that I wasn’t frightened at all.