The Farm Ch. 05

In the evening after Gordy's supper he said, "Come with me." Gordy freed the shackle and led Prize up the polished stairs to the biggest bedroom. He pulled back the covers and sheets and told Prize to lie down. He balked and looked at his place on the hearth where it was his custom to rest.

"Come to my bed, Prize, and sleep."

Prize placed his head on the pillow too weary and afraid to resist. The last moment before his eyes closed he felt Gordy's fingers on the scar on his side and his blood ran cold.

Kabul, September 3, 1879

He whirled his arms raised above his head to plunge his bayonet deep into the chest of the Amir's man, and in doing so exposed his side to the falling scimitar. The blade sliced through his red coat and scraped diagonally along his ribs. He gasped and doubled in pain, staggering forward a few steps before the butt of a jazail musket smashed against the back of his head. He fell, this soldier of twenty. Smoke stung his eyes. His ears rang with the shouts of the victorious and the screams of the dying. The parade ground of the Residence in Kabul tilted sickly and the world went black.

He climbed back through the pain to consciousness and took stock of his surroundings from under lowered lashes afraid to show he was alive. Five inches from his face a jar-blue fly paused on its journey across the open eye of a Devonshire man to rub its front legs across its head. Vomit filled his mouth bitter and hot. The shadows under the portico lay deep and long, purple against tan bricks. A few shots sounded muffled and distant. The scream of what he hoped was a wounded camel and not a man galvanized him to action. He crawled slowly and painfully on his belly toward the deeper dark of the fire-blasted offices' quarters all the while expecting a final shot or a hot blade to end his pain. He wrenched himself to his feet using a rough-brick pillar. Dots of black grew before his eyes and he fell. He tried to break the fall, but his hands slipped and rolled on something slick and ropey and giving. A black cloud of flies rose. He forced his eyes open and found himself sprawled in the guts of an eviscerated and faceless comrade. His shriek died in his throat and he crawled away from the sound of sporadic gun fire.

One word rolled in his mind, Rahim. Get to Rahim. He leaned his back carefully against the rough wall and slowly eased the blood-soaked tunic off, panting with pain. The wound in his side burned and the blood soaked his blouse and trousers. His blouse adhered it and the flesh pulled apart when he tried to examine the wound to find out he was dead already. Pain seared through his head like summer lightening, sending flashes of blue across his eyes. A body of a dead tribesman lay sprawled in the blasted entrance to the officers' quarters. He tugged the perahan free and pulled the long shirt over what was left of his uniform. His red tunic and cartridge belt he left by the tribesman. He paused once to look back at it, the buttons still polished, his blood red on red and began to move along the portico clinging to the wall for support.

He found the doorway to the rug shop on the street behind the palace, how without being killed, he didn't know. That's where Rahim found him unconscious and white with blood loss.

The old doctor Rahim brought cleaned and stitched the scimitar wound in his side with silk and said if the infection didn't kill him that wound wouldn't. His concern lay with the one on the back of his head which he also stitched after clipping the hair. The soldier didn't wake, never all the way. When his eyes opened they saw nothing. Rahim held him and spooned thin gruel past his lips. He gave him cool water. The fever from infection took hold and the soldier shivered, sweated, and grew thin. And at last the old doctor laid his hand on Rahim's arm and told him he was not doing a kindness keeping the soldier alive. He showed him his friend felt the pain by the quickening pulse and rigid muscles. He suffered without hope. He pulled back the light cotton blanket and showed him the wasted body slick with fever sweat and made Rahim see that and not the body of his lover. He held the lamp to the unseeing blue eyes. The doctor laid his hand on Rahim's shoulder and offered to open the soldier's veins and let him slip away. He told Rahim he could prepare a potion to dribble past the peeling lips and send the soldier safely on his way. The doctor told Rahim to step outside and he would place a pillow of silk over the soldier's nose and mouth. And Rahim refused.

He bathed and fed him. He held him. He cleaned the soil from his skin and talked to the soldier. He turned his body in hopes of making him more comfortable, massaged knotting muscles. He fed him opium to ease the pain when the muscles knotted and his lips drew back with the strain. He talked about the morning they first met on the street behind the palace. He talked about a game of chess they played one afternoon that changed everything. When the yellow dogs lay panting in the shade, Rahim gave him a kiss as he pressed him against a sun-warmed wall and the soldier returned that kiss. And long after the fever left when Rahim was ready to listen to the doctor and pour the final drug past the cracked lips, the soldier said his name once and slept. It was a true sleep and not the sad, empty stillness that filled the days and weeks before.

And when he woke again he said, "How long," and stared at a tribal rug of madder and black and though of the spill of intestines in the shadow of the Residence and shivered.

"A very long time," Rahim told him and raised his head to pour water into his mouth. He lifted a hand of twigs to his lips and kissed it.

The recovery, once the soldier opened his eyes, moved quickly. Rahim supported him with a strong arm around his waist as he took his few first steps. He sat dressed in native garb, perahan and tunban, in the winter sun, his face like a flower followed its progress across the sky.

They made cautious advancements made sweeter with the knowledge of what was almost lost. And when the soldier's strength returned their passion played out more fully. Rahim spread a carpet on the floor of the small room and took the soldier by the hand and knelt. He kissed the palm and touched his forehead to the knuckles and said, "I love you." And the soldier knelt with him and took his face in his hands and leaned forward to kiss him gently. They pulled away and looked into each others' eyes, brown and blue.

The lips touched gently and the tip of the soldier's tongue tentatively touched Rahim's lower lip, and the soldier whispered, "Sweeter than dates," and kissed Rahim with the longing born of the knowledge of what came so close to loss.

Rahim unbuttoned his own perahan and lifted it over his head and moved his long fingers to the buttons on the soldier's perahan. He lifted his arms and the cotton slid past his face and fell to the floor. Rahim bent his head and kissed the left nipple, held it between his lips and let his tongue play along the pink skin. He placed his lips on the deep-pink scar and kissed its length across the soldier's ribs sending shivers flashing across his white skin. As the kisses crossed the soldier's stomach he leaned forward and draped his arm across Rahim's shoulder, turned, and kissed his back. And they returned to kneel chest to chest and softly touched lips to lips and drew back. The soldier lowered his lashes and gently held Rahim's lower lip between his own lips and moved his lips and kissed the upper lip. Fingers intertwined. Arms extended. They filled each other's mouths with sighs.

The soldier kissed the pulse in Rahim's neck and whispered, "Love," and nothing more. Rahim trailed his hand down the soldier's back and touched the sensitive skin in the cleft at the apex of the soldier's buttocks. He arched his back and released a shuddering breath. Rahim's thumbs caught in waist of the tumban and pushed it toward the floor and placed the flat of his hand against the soldier's chest and urged him back on the rug of tribal patterns and slid the loose pants free. He kissed his lips, neck, chest, navel, and thigh. Smiling he lifted his face once more to look into eyes as blue as the winter sky then lowered his head and took the soldier's penis between his lips. His lips moved firm and gentle along the shaft and his tongue soft and warm. A pink flush crept up the soldier's neck and colored his cheeks. His lids dropped. His fingers reached for Rahim's face and he was pulled to another deep kiss and a dozen soft ones. Rahim's tumban slid down and they lay for a long moment chest to chest their penises pressed between their stomachs. Skin of milk and skin of honey. The rhythm began slowly and languorous and built. When Rahim's penis was slick with passion and sweat, he halted the motion and turned the soldier on his uninjured side and lifted his leg toward his chest. He planted kisses down his ribs and let his hand dance across his buttocks and leg. He planted a soft kiss on the soldier's hipbone and parted the buttocks and slowly and gently began to insert the head of his penis into his anus. A gasp. A clench of muscle. Soft urgings. Sweet kisses. Another small gasp and surrender and entrance. The tempo was slow and tender. The soldier's breaths shorter and more rapid. He turned his head to watch the passion play across Rahim's face. He raised himself to beg another kiss and received it. His own need pressed against his belly. His body moved to meet Rahim's movements. An urgent warmth and unsatisfied longing passed through the soldier greater than ever before and his stomach muscles rolled and his eyes closed. His need caused him to groan, Rahim's hand wrapped around the soldier's penis and began long strokes. They climaxed together with quakes and tremors and slowly Rahim pulled out and held the soldier tightly in his arms.

In the street the water seller passed crying his wares. A dog barked and the sound of English curses broke the afternoon.

"They've come for me." He pulled himself free of Rahim's arms.

"They are passing by, my love."

"Give me my tamban. I will not be pulled naked into the street." The soldier reached for his clothes.

"Quiet, and listen. They are passing by."

They waited in silence encircled in each other's arms, the soldier blanched with fear and Rahim dark with concern. The winter sun dipped and the room grew dark. When Rahim left the soldier's side to light the oil lamp, a voice came from the shadows, "Stop, don't light the lamp. I don't want to see your face until I've said what I have to say."

"Say it then." Rahim's voice grew sharp with fear.

"I love you." A sigh of relief escaped Rahim.

"And because I love you, I'm going to the Residence and turn myself in."

"And Roberts will hang you. How can you say you love me and say you will see yourself hanged in one breath?" The lamp glowed. Rahim held it to the soldier's face. "I will see the face of the man who loves me so much he will kick at the end of a rope and piss and shit himself. I did not bathe you and feed you and care for you to watch you strangle for the honor of the British army. I did not love you to see you die."

"Rahim, Rahim, how can you love me if I'm a coward?"

"You fought. You almost died defending the Residence. You almost died here in my arms from your wounds. And now you want to die for misplaced honor. You will not find justice with Roberts."

"I will not be a coward."

"With Roberts lies death not justice and honor. Stay here. Live with me."

"And how will I live with myself?"

They sat in silence through the night, each with his own thoughts. At times they wept. They comforted each other. When the sun rose cold and pale and its sister, the moon, hung on a mountain peak, Rahim broke the silence. "Listen to me, my soldier, and think of what I propose to you." The soldier turned his eyes to Rahim and nodded. "Tell me if this is true of your laws. Tell me if you follow your honor and give yourself over for trial not here but in England they will listen to your plight not call for rope and drums."

"Rahim, England is half a world away."

"And removed from this slaughter. Will they listen there?"

"They may." The soldier kissed Rahim so he wouldn't see the lie in his eyes.

With those words the planning began. Rahim spun out his plan and the soldier listened and agreed. He thought of it as his last gifts to Rahim. He knew going would protect Rahim from retribution, it would give them time, and Rahim would not have to watch him hang. He increased his skills in speaking Pashto. He refined his knowledge of customs. He rebuilt his strength. He knew how a fool from Oxfordshire, was found out despite the dirt and native garb and he drank his opium and lay in Rahim's arms as the old doctor performed the circumcision to complete his transformation. It made Rahim happy; it was part of his last gift. When he woke Rahim named him Aarmaan.

***

The camels groaned and protested as they knelt to receive their burdens of spices, jade, fine white bowls, silk, dishes with intricate patterns, and the rugs to be sold from Rahim's shop. The asses were loaded with tents and food stuffs. The excitement was palpable as the caravan left to traverse the Silk Road through the Khyber Pass. Aarmaan carried a jazail now with its deep curved stock to defend the men and trade goods from bandits. Rahim rode a good horse and kept a sharp eye on his family's fortune and his. They passed out of the city under the watchful eyes of Roberts' soldiers.

They traveled without incident for seven weeks always heading west. The snow covered mountains giving way to hills. Low scrub dotted the arid land. Twice Rahim saw bandits on a far crest, but the caravan was large and well armed. When he could Rahim led Aarmaan away from the campfires for stolen, urgent moments of kisses, and caresses, and words of love. But most evenings before he took his post to guard Rahim and the caravan, Aarmaan squatted by the cook fire and listened to stories told by his fellows. The Silver on the Hearth, Salt Sweeter than Sugar, The Golden Necklace, Man with Bad Manners and more filled the evenings as the camels settled for the night and the asses sounded their last complaints. And the travelers learned to respect and like the quiet blue-eyed guard. On occasion jackals barked in the low bush and once the cry of a large cat far from its mountain caused the listeners around the fire to reach for their jazails and look into the darkness. Stars fretted the deep blue sky and Aarmaan took his post.

Beyond Namadan they encountered a British patrol moving in the opposing direction. A rough and ragtag group led by a sunburned sergeant with a thin mouth and sharp eye. As they passed the caravan the sergeant eyed the goods and the men who traveled with them. His eyes flicked over Aarmaan suspiciously and moved on distracted by a bucking ass rebelling against his burden. Aarmaan looked back and released a shuddering breath. His eyes met that of the sergeant who turned in the saddle to examine Aarmaan. He pulled his horse up sharply and returned.

"You there."

Aarmaan kept walking.

"You there. Halt!"

Aarmaan tried to look innocent and confused. He tried to stay calm. The sergeant kicked the sides of his roan and pushed forward, effectively cutting Aarmaan off from the main part of the caravan. The roan pressed on and Aarmaan was forced back and off the road. He stumbled on loose rock and quickly regained his footing. He squared his shoulders and clenched his fists. The sergeant pressed on but this time the Aarmaan held his ground and reached for his jazail slung on his shoulder.

"You touch that gun, boy, and I'll shoot you where you stand." The sergeant kicked his heels to the roan's sides and leveled his gun at Aarmaan's chest. "I know what you are. You're money."

Aarmaan lifted the strap from his shoulder and began to ease it down his arm. He didn't blink. The roan tossed its head.

Rahim rode up and shouted in Pashta, "Stop, he'll shoot you if you if you touch your gun." He turned to the sergeant, "For pity's sake, he doesn't speak your English. Aarmaan stand still."

The sergeant never moved his eyes from Aarmaan. He kept his pistol cocked. "If that's the case, you tell him to do what I say. Mallory, you watch the man on the horse, if this deserter moves, kill the fool." Aarmaan shifted his gaze. "I recon he understands every word I've said. Tell your people to stand back and tell your friend here to put the musket on the ground. Slowly now."

Others from the caravan stopped to watch. The drivers, cooks, guards, merchants like Rahim, the old man who told the story of Salt Sweeter than Sugar as he stirred the crackling fire just the night before. Their voices grew and their necks craned. Dark eyes sunk deep in wrinkles, young eyes filled with fear, and eyes filled with hate surveyed the tableaux. All were pushed back by soldiers on horses.

"When I tell you, shoot the sergeant and run. Goodbye." Rahim smiled.

Slowly Aarmaan removed the jazail from his shoulder, and with a last look at Rahim; he laid it on the pebbles and dirt and raised his hands to shoulder level. And as quickly as that, Aarmaan was caught and quickly bound. The sergeant dismounted and crossed the hard ground to look him in the eye. He grabbed him by the jaw, pressing his thin lips together so tightly that they disappeared. Aarmaan smelled the stench of last night's whisky on his breath and the stink of rotting teeth. He did not turn his head away. He met the flat stare with a calm eye as his head was moved side to side. The sergeant grabbed the collar of Aarmaan's parahan and pulled it off his shoulder exposing the milk-white skin. And a murmur rose from his fellow travelers for they knew he surrendered himself into the hands of the soldiers for their sake and Rahim's. Some were sad for the young man and some were happy for themselves. The examination complete, the sergeant directed two of his men to lead Aarmaan away from the main body of the caravan.

"You're caught, you craven bastard. Give me your name."

Aarmaan said nothing. He did not drop his eyes.

Rahim did not give up. "Please, sir, please." He dismounted and walked toward the group, his empty hands extended palms up, his head inclined, shoulders bent. "He is my wife's relation. He is the only support of aging parents. Please, sir, please. How can I return to my family and tell them I let you take an only son?"

The sergeant said nothing. He shoved Aarmaan and the soldiers started to lead him roughly away.

"Please, sir, please. He is no infidel. He is no deserter. He is my wife's relation. You are mistaken. When you return with him to your superiors, they will find the truth and you will be laughed at. You will pay me reparations for your foolishness and kidnapping."

The sergeant paused. The soldiers stopped pulling Aarmaan by his bound hands. "How will they know?"

Rahim leveled his eyes at the sergeant. "Because his family followed the rites as directed by our faith." His words were met with a blank stare.

"Sergeant, he's telling you his dick is cut," the soldier to Aarmaan's left said. "They do that, the wogs do, sir."

And so they pulled down Aarmaan's tunban and lifted his perahan and he stood in the bright sun his eyes fixed on a snowy peak as the sergeant looked at his circumcised penis. He laughed and pushed Aarmaan into the dirt and spat on him. He called his men and they rode on.

Rahim moved to Aarmaan's side and pull his perahan down to cover his nakedness and untied his wrists. He whispered, "Forgive me." Aarmaan kept his eyes fixed on the far mountain snow turned pink in the setting sun. He pulled up the tunban with one shaking hand and adjusted his clothes. His first steps back to the caravan were wobbly, but he squared his shoulders and straightened his back. He bent to retrieve his jazail from the dirt and slung it on his back. The onlookers parted and Aarmaan returned to his place. An ass brayed and the caravan moved on the Silk Road. Rahim mounted his good horse and rode ahead.