“Remember, no one can see you. If the other side sees you, you’ll get caught, and you’ll lose.”
“But am I winning now?”
“Yes. But this mission is very important, and very dangerous.”
“I know, I know.”
“Now go, quickly! No one is looking!”
The soldier smiled, and edged along the market stall, closer to the whisperers. Finally, a chance to prove himself to his superiors. He would capture the spies and turn them in. He would do this duty, and his family would be honored by him. They would have time for a second son fathered by a foreign soldier. Stealthily, he faced his prey, heart beating in wild anticipation.
His blue eyes, his bastard eyes, beheld only a kneeling girl and a little boy weaving in and out of the crowd.
“Damn it!” Fate mocked him. Always. He ground his rifle into the dirt, dirt that disappeared on his brown skin. He was accustomed to disappointments. This day would be no different than any other. Inhaling deeply, he retrieved his iron calm and turned away.
“Please…”
He whirled around. “What?”
But she wasn’t talking to him. “Please, please, please, please…”
The soldier followed her intense gaze to the boy, deftly stealing two kabobs from an unsuspecting seller.
“Thank you, Fate,” he said, fingering the red-tasseled hilt of his dagger. Except he couldn’t do it. Not to a starving little boy, with all those people watching him. Watching him, and hating him. He was weak, and he knew it, but too ashamed to slink away and seek another chance at glory.
“This may not be glory,” he said grimly to himself, throwing his rifle strap over his shoulder. “But I must prove I will do my duty to this country.”
Their agility and quickness impressed him. His long hours of training were no match for their desperation. The girl ran without looking back, like a woman long assured of her purpose. She had a strange protective air about her, and he wondered if she was the boy’s mother. The soldier felt a sudden urge to see her face, but it was masked by a black headscarf that trailed behind her. Alluringly it dared him to close the distance between them.
They stopped, panting, in an empty alley to breathe. He took the dare.
“Do you know the punishment for stealing?” Casually he aimed the rifle at the boy, who made no sound, eyes wide.
“Not death,” the girl breathed.
“No.” He lowered the rifle and drew his dagger. “The loss of the hand that did the stealing. Unless you pay.”
“We have no money,” the girl whispered. “Please. We just want to leave this place.”
“No one leaves this country!” Beads of sweat trickled down his temples. “The borders are closed.”
“I know. But we cannot stay here. This country is dead to us.” Her voice was hollow, like her eyes.
“You cannot leave, and you cannot escape justice.” Forcing his hand not to shake, he raised the dagger. The seconds were centuries to him.
“Wait! Take my hand instead.” She ran to him and held out her left arm, tears in her words but not her eyes. “Please. He’s just a boy.”
“The law of this country forbids it.” He pushed past her. If he let her into his head he would lose his nerve.
“You can’t do this! Have you no mercy?”
“Get out of my way!”
“No!” She lunged wildly and grabbed his arm. Her malnourished body would have been easily overpowered, but he faltered. Sensing his hesitation, she tried to wrench the dagger from his hand. He twisted out of her reach and thrust her to the ground. The scarf fell snakelike at her feet. He felt shameful, looking at the naked skin of her neck and her face. But he couldn’t help looking.
Her dark eyes were weary with many burdens, but her bronze skin sang to him, and her lips were perfect. He wanted to reach out and lift the thick curtain of black hair that fell across her face.
“Do you fear me?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Her stare was resolute. “But I will fight you to save my brother.”
He could not hurt this girl, or the little boy. Not after seeing her face.
“I will escort you to the refugee camp one village to the east,” he said when he had found his voice. “You will not be punished for stealing, but I cannot let you leave this country.” He brushed back his hair, awaiting her gratitude.
“Thank you, soldier,” she said, but her voice was stilted, and there was no warmth in it.
“My name is Rahim.”
“You are a soldier, and that is what I will call you.”
“I cannot call you ‘girl.’ ”
“I am Aamira and my brother is Amal. May we eat our stolen food before we go, soldier?”
“Yes.” He picked up her fallen scarf. “Yes.”
· · ·
“Get down!” He pulled Aamira and her brother to the ground and flattened himself next to them. Another round was fired, and Amal whimpered. She drew her brother closer to her, covering his eyes. Rahim threw them a jealous glance, then laughed at himself for thinking such things.
“Soldier! Are they gone?”
He looked up, squinting at the shrinking aircraft. “Yes. Come on.” He clumsily pushed himself up and offered her a hand, but she stood on her own.
“What was that?”
“Rebel planes. Let’s move. We should cover more ground before dark.” He retrieved his pack and slung it over his shoulder. She hurried after him, Amal still clutching her hand.
He paused, irritated, when the two of them started to lag behind. “What now?”
“Amal is tired. He’s only eight.”
“We can’t stop yet. The safe ground is still a few miles away.” He turned to go on, tired of wanting to please her.
“Are you listening to me, soldier? He can’t go any further.”
“Are you listening to me? We can’t stop here.” He faced her, taking advantage of his height.
Her eyes blazed above her scarf. “What are you going to do, take us at gunpoint?”
“I’m considering it.” They stood, wasting energy and daylight.
“Mira? I can walk a little more,” offered Amal tentatively.
She knelt down and stroked his hair. “No,” she said kindly but firmly. “I’m not letting you get sick again.”
Rahim watched them guiltily. “Can you carry the pack?”
“Why?”
“I’ll carry him if you carry the pack.”
Her lips hovered between words and silence. Finally she nodded, the fire leaving her eyes. “All right.” She added almost as an afterthought, “Thank you.”
He smiled, savoring the first kind words she had ever said to him.
“You’re welcome.”
Little Amal was hardly a burden compared to the silence that came over them again. To his surprise, she was the one to break it.
“Your eyes are very blue.”
They always noticed that first. “My father was an American soldier.”
“Is that why you wanted to be a soldier? To be like him?”
“No!” He grimaced, hating himself for yelling at her. “I wanted to prove my allegiance to this country. My country.”
“And do you believe in what you’re fighting for?”
“Yes.” The word sounded empty, even to him.
Her gaze was not accusatory, only sad.
“Our parents were fighting against this regime. My father was a teacher, and my mother a journalist. They were murdered because they made too many statements against the government.” Her voice turned hard. “I hope you didn’t kill them.”
His stomach twisted at the thought.
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
“But you’re a soldier!”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” he repeated, putting Amal down. The boy ran to his sister. “We can stop and camp here.”
“Would you have killed me?”
“I need to make a fire. Get the food out of the pack, please.” He busied himself with gathering scattered branches. Remnants of the sunlight lit up her face, and he admired it from afar. The wood was dry and dusty in his hands, like ashes. He repressed a shudder and continued. A small hand tugged on his sleeve.
“I’m sorry you had to carry me.”
“That’s all right, Amal. You weren’t very heavy.”
“Can I help you? I’m not so tired anymore.”
Rahim couldn’t refuse that eager face. “You want to play a game?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay, here are the rules. You have to pick up as much wood as you can, but you have to stay where your sister and I can see you. Got it?” Amal scampered off in answer, and grabbed a handful of sticks. Rahim began to arrange his branches into a rough pyramid. After adding a few dry leaves to the top, he pulled out the matches and lit the leaves. The bright flames danced, reflected in his blue eyes.
· · ·
“How did you know about the game?”
“What game?” They spoke in whispers to keep from waking Amal.
“I made a game out of stealing food. I called it the Bread Game. I thought it would be easier for him to understand.” She moved closer to the fire, and her cheeks glowed red.
Suddenly he understood. “You’ve been giving him your share, haven’t you? You’re starving yourself.”
“He’s only a child. He shouldn’t have to pay for a country’s mistakes.”
“Neither should you.”
The fire crackled and he added another branch, wondering how much longer she would talk to him.
“You were… kind to my brother.” She spoke haltingly, twisting her hands in her lap. “I should have been more… trusting… but it has been very hard, for us.”
It was as much of an apology as he would get, and he cherished it. “It doesn’t matter.” Somehow that seemed the wrong answer. “I mean, you matter, to me, of course… but not like that… but — I just — look, don’t apologize, if—”
She laughed, and her eyebrows arched up in surprise as if she was unaccustomed to the sound. Blue eyes met black, and he imagined that the strength of his longing made her lean into his gaze. She reached out to touch him, but caught herself midway. Instead her fingers traveled the length of the cloth obscuring her face, like that had been the path they intended.
“You’re the only man who’s ever seen my hair,” she said.
A thousand wishes were pressing on his lips, but he was silent. As if in answer, she unwound her scarf. Unchecked by morality, he was free to gaze in wonder. But the shame crept upon him again, stealing euphoria.
“You shouldn’t uncover it for me,” he said heavily.
Her face closed immediately and the invisible thread between them was severed. “You shouldn’t be a soldier if you don’t believe in killing.”
“It isn’t that I don’t believe in it —”
“Are you afraid?”
He was too afraid to admit he was afraid.
“It’s all right to be afraid. I could never kill anyone.”
“You’re a girl,” he said bitterly.
“You think that makes a difference? There are people who’ve had their parents die like me and sworn to kill the ones who did it! But I would never do that. There is no glory in killing, and you should be ashamed to pretend there is!”
“Shame? I have been a shame to my family and my country all my life, a bastard son with the eyes of a barbarian. Yes, I am afraid! Is that what you wanted to hear? I am so afraid of killing I couldn’t even shoot a silly girl who bares her face like a whore!”
She drew back, holding her cheeks as if he had slapped her.
Amal sat up drowsily. “Mira, what is it? Do we have to run again?”
“No, Amal. Go back to sleep.” She turned to Rahim and her stare pierced his soul. “I’m just being silly.” Blinking back tears, she wrapped the scarf around her head once more.
· · ·
“Wait here.” He led them to a deserted alleyway. “I need to check in with my superior and I don’t want you there with me because they’ll ask questions.” A pair of eyes seemed to gleam out of a window, but when he looked more closely they had melted into the shadows. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he had gotten more sleep. “Don’t run off, because there’s nowhere for you to go.”
“No, soldier.” She, too, had dark circles under her eyes. Amal, holding her hand, said nothing.
Rahim left them, cursing himself silently. He hated her for being right, but desperately sought her forgiveness, which she would not give. With that one ill-chosen word he had obliterated any bond they had formed. He saw why, now. She had nearly starved herself to avoid prostitution, and he had dared to accuse her of it. It mattered little. Their journey together would be ending soon, and he would be left alone to salvage his wounded pride. He was now on a public street, and a few uniformed men saluted him. He gripped his rifle more tightly and kept walking.
“Come back, please come back!”
“Amal?” He was startled to see a purple bruise forming around the boy’s eye. “What is it?”
“Please, come help my sister! He’s hurting my sister!”
He sprinted back to the alley. Aamira, his Aamira, lay buried under a soldier who was tearing at her clothes and beating her as she struggled uselessly under him.
Her eyes met his, and both were wild with fear. “Rahim!” she screamed.
Rahim, not soldier. Rahim. His fear gave him ammunition against Fate, who would pay for mocking him again.
A shot, then silence. Breathing came by instinct, but his body was paralyzed and eternities away. As if from a different life, he heard someone calling a name. Rahim. His name. Slowly, he looked down at the rifle in his hands.
It did not feel like his body that walked to Aamira and pulled the soldier away. Blood stained his hands, but it wasn’t her blood. Her scarf had been ripped off her and lay crumpled in the dirt.
“Mira! Did we lose the game? Did we lose?”
She looked at her brother’s crying face and made no answer.
“No, Amal. We didn’t lose.” He had killed for her, and he wouldn’t leave them to carry that burden alone. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said, taking both their hands in his. Aamira’s eyes spoke to him as she tried to remember how to smile. “We’re playing a new game now. And we’re going to win.”
“You were well named,” she whispered, as her hands learned the shape of his. “Rahim, merciful.” She guided his hand to her hair, and the silky waves of black were paradise.