The Night Letter

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Safiq saw he few distant lights of those who were lucky enough to have power were weak and unsteady, almost bluish, fading into the surrounding night. The stars, incalculably further away, were much brighter. There would be plenty of light to see him home, as well as to make him visible to anyone waiting or following. A breeze swept the cold from the mountain slopes down into the valley. The fighting season was something so regular and predictable that it seemed to have worn itself into the very cycle of nature. The only changes were the shifting alliances but those, in a general sense, were predicable, too.

It was not terribly late, around midnight. There were a few other cafes nearby, identical to the one he left with the identical sounds of domino tiles being placed and voices and whips of smoke through the windows. Safiq felt more at ease as he advanced along the almost barren path to his qalat. He filled his lungs with the night, the time when the land came alive, its creatures stirred and the plants exhaled their long held breaths. Even the rocks seemed alive as the starlight shadows crossing the path gave them the illusion of movement. Sometimes the wind was strong enough to stir cyclones like visiting spirits who wanted to make themselves known to the lone mortal. He recited Qu'ranic verses to pass the time as he walked past the ruin of a Soviet tank. He recited all the Qu'ran he could remember, it was not much, and then he started over again. He passed the gravel field the Russians had mined and where there might be mines still, where Safiq had lost his first son. Safiq had seen it happened and he saw it again every time he passed but there was no other way to get home. He looked away from the gravel field where he knew there were mines and recited the verses more carefully now. The barking of the dogs let him know they had seen him. He picked up a good chunking stone, anyway; they sounded very close tonight. He remembered chasing the dogs, the ancestors of the very dogs he heard now, with stones when he was a child. There was one Turkish Mangal the size of a man that he had hit right above its left eye and it fell over dead. Something about the memory made him reach down and pick up a handful of rocks, discarding the ones with awkward angles and feeling the comforting, rounded edges of those remaining with his finger. They would make good chucking stones.

He thought he saw movement just off the path but far enough within the shadows of the rock to cause doubt that he had seen anything at all. He stopped walking to silence the scuffing of his sandals in the stones. He turned in a full circle and it made him pleasantly dizzy. One usually thought of the sky as being flat but tonight it looked like a dome, the inside of a big blue qubba of a mosque, he thought before continuing on, satisfied he was alone.

He started again, leaning forward as if to compel progress and against the growing sensation that he wasn't really moving at all; the stars were wheeling, pulling the mountains along with them so he was standing still with only the illusion of progress. He could barely feel his feet touch the ground. Off to his left he heard the whip of a breeze carrying a chill as if it were a spirit that lived on top of the mountain come to inspect the intruder and breathe its icy breath on him. He jerked his head to windward. He thought he could see the white blur of shalwar kameez, then the same thing from his right. He stood like this shaking his head back and forth like a bull uncertain of its charge. Out here in the open was a poor spot for an ambush but he was outnumbered. Like all good guerrilla fighters, they were as certain of his perceptions as they were of their own. They knew when to hide and when to appear for maximum effect. But the trap wouldn't spring. Perhaps it was just a warning or maybe they were just using him for sport. He refused to be cowed and he continued on. He could hear them laughing among the rocks.

His pulse was still quick when he came upon the door of his qalat. A few dogs were snuffing around it. His wife chased them off when he was around and fed them when he wasn't. She thought he didn't know but he knew. The only other visible disturbance was the not quite white rectangle of paper stuck to the door, although he was not surprised to see it. It was fixed with a knife with no handle. The blade was discolored with rust or blood and Safiq had to grab it carefully to avoid cutting himself. He had to pull hard as the blade was struck deep in the desiccated wood. The paper was brittle and warped as if it had been wet and then dried and it didn't hold ink very well. He had to turn to turn his back to the moonlight to read the letter.