Lie Down with Lions (1985)

Jane panicked. She had been planning to leave, of course, but not so suddenly; and now she felt she did not have time to think. She began to rush around the little house, throwing clothes and food and medical supplies indiscriminately into an assortment of bags, terrified that she would forget something crucial but too rushed to pack sensibly.

Ellis understood her mood and stopped her. He held her shoulders, kissed her forehead and spoke calmly to her. “Tell me something,” he said. “Do you happen to know what the highest mountain in Britain is?”

She wondered if he was crazy. “Ben Nevis,” she said. “It’s in Scotland.”

“How high is it?”

“Over four thousand feet.”

“Some of the passes we’re going to climb are sixteen and seventeen thousand feet high—that’s four times as high as the highest mountain in Britain. Although the distance is only a hundred and fifty miles, it’s going to take us at least two weeks. So stop; think; and plan. If you take a little more than an hour to pack, too bad—it’s better than going without the antibiotics.”

She nodded, took a deep breath and started again.

She had two saddlebags that could double as backpacks. Into one she put clothes: Chantal’s diapers, a change of underwear for all of them, Ellis’s quilted down coat from New York, and the fur-lined raincoat, complete with hood, that she had brought from Paris. She used the other bag for medical supplies and food—iron rations for emergencies. There was no Kendal Mint Cake, of course, but Jane had found a local substitute, a cake made of dried mulberries and walnuts, almost indigestible but packed with concentrated energy. They also had a lot of rice and a lump of hard cheese. The only souvenir Jane took was her collection of Polaroid photographs of the villagers. They also took their sleeping bags, a saucepan and Ellis’s military kit bag, which contained some explosives and blasting equipment—their only weapon. Ellis lashed all the baggage to Maggie, the unidirectional mare.

Their hurried leave-taking was tearful. Jane was embraced by Zahara, old Rabia the midwife, and even Halima, Mohammed’s wife. A sour note was introduced by Abdullah, who passed by just before they left and spat on the ground, hurrying his family along; but a few seconds later his wife came back, looking frightened but determined, and pressed into Jane’s hand a present for Chantal, a primitive rag doll with a miniature shawl and veil.

Jane hugged and kissed Fara, who was inconsolable. The girl was thirteen: soon she would have a husband to adore. In a year or two she would marry and move into the home of her husband’s parents. She would have eight or ten children, perhaps half of whom would live past the age of five. Her daughters would marry and leave home. Those of her sons who survived the fighting would get married and bring their wives home. Eventually, when the family grew too large, the sons and the daughters-in-law and the grandchildren would begin to move out to start new extended families of their own. Then Fara would become a midwife, like her grandmother Rabia. I hope, Jane thought, that she’ll remember a few of the lessons I taught her.

Ellis was embraced by Alishan and Shahazai, and then they left, to cries of “God go with you!” The village children accompanied them to the bend in the river. Jane paused there and looked back for a moment at the little huddle of mud-colored houses that had been her home for a year. She knew she would never come back; but she had a feeling that, if she survived, she would be telling stories of Banda to her grandchildren.

They walked briskly along the riverbank. Jane found herself straining her ears for the sound of helicopters. How soon would the Russians start looking for them? Would they send a few helicopters to hunt more or less at random, or would they take the time to organize a really thorough search? Jane did not know which to hope for.

It took them less than an hour to reach Dasht-i-Rewat, “The Plain with a Fort,” a pleasant village where the cottages with their shaded courtyards were dotted along the northern bank of the river. Here it was that the cart track—the pitted, snaking, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t dirt path that passed for a road in the Five Lions Valley— came to an end. Any wheeled vehicles robust enough to survive the road had to stop here, so the village did a little business horse trading. The fort mentioned in the name was up a side valley, and was now a prison, run by the guerrillas, housing a few captured government troops, a Russian or two, and the occasional thief. Jane had visited it once, to treat a miserable nomad from the western desert who had been conscripted into the regular army, had contracted pneumonia in the cold Kabul winter, and had deserted. He was being “reeducated” before being allowed to join the guerrillas.

It was midday, but neither of them wanted to stop and eat. They hoped to reach Saniz, ten miles away at the head of the Valley, by nightfall; and although ten miles was no great distance on level ground, in this landscape it could take many hours.

The last stretch of the road wound in and out between the houses on the north bank. The south bank was a cliff two hundred feet high. Ellis led the horse and Jane carried Chantal in the sling she had devised, which enabled her to feed Chantal without stopping. The village ended at a water mill close to the mouth of the side valley called the Riwat, which led to the prison. After they had passed that point, they were not able to walk so fast. The ground began to slope up, gradually at first and then more steeply. They climbed steadily under the hot sun. Jane covered her head with her pattu, the brown blanket all travelers carried. Chantal was shaded by the sling. Ellis wore his Chitrali cap, a gift from Mohammed.

When they reached the summit of the pass she noted, with some satisfaction, that she was not even breathing hard. She had never been this fit in her life—and she probably never would be so again. Ellis was not only panting but perspiring, she observed. He was in quite good shape, but he was not as hardened to hours of walking as she was. It made her feel rather smug, until she remembered he had suffered two bullet wounds just nine days ago.

Beyond the pass, the track ran along the mountainside, high above the Five Lions River. Here, the river was sluggish. Where it was deep and still the water appeared bright green, the color of the emeralds which were found all around Dasht-i-Riwat and taken to Pakistan to be sold. Jane had a fright when her hypersensitive ears picked up the sound of distant aircraft: there was nowhere to hide on the bare clifftop, and she was seized by a sudden desire to jump off the cliff into the river a hundred feet below. But it was only a flight of jets, too high to see anyone on the ground. Nevertheless, from then on Jane scanned the terrain constantly for trees, bushes and hollows in which they might hide. A devil inside her said You don’t have to do this, you could go back, you could give yourself up and be reunited with your husband, but somehow it seemed an academic question, a technicality.

The path was still climbing, but more gently, so they made better speed. They were delayed, every mile or two, by the tributaries which came rushing in from the side valleys to join the main river. The track would dive down to a log bridge or a ford, and Ellis would have to drag the unwilling Maggie into the water, with Jane yelling and throwing stones at her from behind.

An irrigation channel ran the full length of the gorge, on the cliffside high above the river. Its purpose was to enlarge the cultivable area in the plain. Jane wondered how long ago it was that the Valley had had time and men and peace enough to carry out such a big engineering project: hundreds of years, perhaps.

The gorge narrowed and the river below was littered with granite boulders. There were caves in the limestone cliffs: Jane noted them as possible hiding places. The landscape became bleak and a cold wind blew down the Valley, making Jane shiver for a moment despite the sunshine. The rocky terrain and the sheer cliffs suited birds: there were scores of Asian magpies.

At last the gorge gave way to another plain. Far to the east, Jane could see a range of hills, and above the hills were visible the white mountains of Nuristan. Oh, my God, that’s where we’re going, Jane thought; and she was afraid.

In the plain stood a small cluster of poor houses. “I guess this is it,” said Ellis. “Welcome to Saniz.”

They walked onto the plain, looking for a mosque or one of the stone huts for travelers. As they drew level with the first of the houses, a figure stepped out of it, and Jane recognized the handsome face of Mohammed. He was as surprised as she. Her surprise gave way to horror when she realized she was going to have to tell him that his son had been killed.

Ellis gave her time to collect her thoughts by saying in Dari: “Why are you here?”

“Masud is here,” Mohammed replied. Jane realized that this must be a guerrilla hideout. Mohammed went on: “Why are you here?”

“We’re going to Pakistan.”

“This way?” Mohammed’s face became grave. “What happened?”