The Honey Thief (3 page)

*   *   *

In the early morning when the sky and the land were the one dark colour, Abbas woke the old man and brought him some breakfast. While the old man was eating, Abbas took four pieces of the bread his mother baked in the
tandoor
and poured honey on each piece. Then he rolled them up and wrapped the four sandwiches in cotton cloth. He placed the parcel of sandwiches inside his jacket of sheepskin so that the warmth of his body would prevent the honey from freezing. He filled two bottles with water to drink during the day and placed them in a woven bag that he would wear over his shoulder. In the mountain pastures where the sheep were grazing, there was nothing to eat except that which you carried with you.

Abbas asked the old man, ‘Are you ready?’ and the old man said, ‘I wish I was still in my bed.’

It was just past the time of morning prayer when Abbas and the old man started on their journey. They walked the path from the village to the mountain pastures without a lantern. Their feet knew where to place themselves. The old man was carrying both his staff and a heavy rifle of Russian make that dated from the time of the tyrant Abdur Rahman and had once belonged to one of Abdur Rahman’s soldiers. It surprised Abbas that the old man should wish to carry a rifle with him. When he asked about it, the old man said, ‘I am attending to your education.’

‘Tell me again how the rifle came into your hands,’ Abbas enquired.

‘You know the story of the weapon. Why should I tell you again?’ came the reply.

‘For my pleasure.’

Walking through the darkness with Abbas’ dog at their heels, the old man repeated the story of the rifle to the boy. He started by saying, ‘This is a story that is a sorrow to tell,’ which is how he began the story each time he told it. He said that twenty soldiers of the tyrant Abdur Rahman had come to the village in Hazarajat where he had lived as a boy. ‘They came to shoot Hazara,’ he said. ‘They killed many. My mother cried out to me, “Child, run for your life!” and I ran as fast as I could. One of the soldiers chased me. I was thinking as I ran, “Where can I hide?” But there was nowhere to hide. I ran into a little valley that all of the people of the village kept away from because it was the home of snakes, both black snakes and grey snakes. When I was deep in the valley, I stopped and waited. The soldier saw me waiting and he raised his gun. I knew that his gun would fire only one bullet before it had to be reloaded. I said, “You have a choice. You can shoot me, or you can shoot the snake at your feet.” He looked down and indeed, a black snake lay on a rock close to where he stood. He screamed and fired at the snake, but in his fear he missed. The soldier threw down his gun and ran back the way he had come.’

‘And the snake was a black one, and not poisonous,’ added Abbas.

The old man affirmed, ‘As we who live here know, the black snakes are not poisonous. Only the grey ones.’

‘You kept the rifle for yourself?’

‘For myself,’ said the old man, and Abbas knew that he was smiling in the darkness.

‘And you taught yourself to fire the rifle as straight as a man can fire an arrow.’

‘Yes,’ said the old man, ‘I taught myself, whenever I could find a bullet.’

Abbas was about to say something more, but the old man made a sound of displeasure in the darkness. ‘Of that we don’t speak,’ he said.

*   *   *

Light had come into the sky by the time Abbas and his grandfather reached the pastures. The sheep and goats were jostling inside the fold, waiting to be freed into the fields. The fold was made up of wooden sections that joined together and had to be taken apart one section at a time. When the first section was lifted, the sheep and goats rushed through the opening to feed on the spring grass wet with dew. Abbas said to his dog, ‘Hurry!’ and the dog loped along with the sheep and goats, bumping them and sometimes giving a deep bark. The dog was showing the sheep and goats that he was at his post. He was well trained and he returned to Abbas and the old man once he was done.

Abbas, the old man and the dog walked up into the pastures and found a place to keep watch on the valley slope above the sheep and goats. Abbas would normally stand for most of the morning, resting on the stick that was his only weapon. But because the old man said, ‘Why stand when a seat on the ground is free for the taking?’ Abbas sat down and offered the old man a drink of water. Then he said, ‘Would you like something to eat? I have two sandwiches for you.’

‘I think I’ll wait,’ replied the old man.

They sat side by side, the old man Esmail and the boy Abbas. The light grew stronger in the sky above the mountains but there were no shadows yet. When at last the sun rose above the mountains the peaks changed from black to red, then to gold.

‘Thank you for coming with me today,’ said Abbas.

‘I wish I was still in my bed. I’m too old to be on my feet before sunrise.’

‘Do you still believe a wolf will come?’

‘Oh yes. A wolf will come.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Abbas. Then he said, ‘When I first came to guard the sheep, my brothers said to me, “The wolves are always watching,” but I have never seen one. They said, “If you fall asleep, the wolves will seize you and eat you. They will start at your feet and finish at your head.” It’s nonsense.’

‘Tell me about numbers. How many numbers do you know?’ asked the old man.

‘How many?’ repeated Abbas. ‘All of them.’

‘You know all of the numbers in the world?’

‘Numbers are not difficult,’ said Abbas.

‘Tell me about measuring,’ said the old man. ‘How is that possible?’

‘It’s simple,’ responded Abbas. With his staff, he drew a right-angled triangle in the brown dust. ‘You see this angle? It measures ninety degrees. This other angle measures forty-five degrees. In a circle there are three hundred and sixty degrees. Once you know that, you can measure anything.’

The old man shook his head, as if in wonder. He asked Abbas about the countries of the world. He said it interested him greatly to hear of the countries of the world. He knew very little about them. ‘But you have read a book about countries, so tell me. Is there a country with more mountains than we have here?’

The book that the old man spoke of was an atlas. Abbas had been permitted to take home the atlas from school to study it. ‘There is a country called India that has more mountains than us,’ said the boy.

‘Is there a country called Russia?’ the old man asked. He had heard of Russia.

‘Yes, and another called America. There are two Americas. One is south and the other is north. In the north, the people drive cars, everybody drives cars. I have seen pictures in a magazine.’

Abbas was speaking of a magazine kept at the school by the teacher, who let only the best students look at its pages. It was from America and was called the
Saturday Evening Post.

The old man had some idea of what a car looked like and what it did, but he asked Abbas to tell him more. He asked him about aeroplanes, too. He was curious about everything that Abbas had learnt at school, but he kept returning to the magazine. He understood that a magazine was like a book, but with pictures, and every question he asked betrayed his interest in seeing it. Abbas pronounced the name of the magazine in English, as his teacher did. The teacher could speak some English and read even more. He had been out of Afghanistan to the city of Istanbul. He could have lived in Istanbul if he’d wished, but it was his great passion to see the Hazara educated, and so he had returned to be the schoolteacher in a poor village.

When Abbas had answered questions for almost an hour, the old man said, ‘I’ll eat a sandwich now.’ Abbas gave him a sandwich from the fabric bag and took one for himself, also.

As they ate, they gazed across to the other side of the valley where a terrace had been constructed on the mountainside. A man named Sayed Ali grew pears on the terrace. The pears grew over a trellis made of timber. These were the prize pears of the district. Each one sold for five times the price of ordinary pears. Sayed Ali and his family looked after the orchard as if it were a goldmine. When the frosts came, Sayed Ali built a fire so that the air around the pears didn’t become too cold and kill them in their infancy. In the years of the tyrant Abdur Rahman, soldiers had been sent to burn down the orchard, which was very old. But the soldiers had been turned away by Hazara with guns. Esmail had been one of those who had turned Abdur Rahman’s soldiers away. He had killed two soldiers when he was only fourteen years old, but he never spoke about that time if he could avoid it.

Well into the morning, the old man lay back on the ground with his hands behind his head and his knees raised. Abbas wasn’t sure if the old man was sleeping or only resting. He began to feel guilty for encouraging the old man to rise so early. Normally the old man would pray at five in the morning then go back to sleep, but this morning he had stayed awake. Abbas studied the old man’s face at rest. Deep lines ran across his forehead and down his cheeks. Abbas thought sadly, ‘Well, he will not live forever.’

But just as he was thinking this, the old man spoke without opening his eyes.

‘A wolf has come,’ he said.

Abbas was startled. He glanced quickly down at the sheep and goats. His eyesight was excellent, but he saw no wolf.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I see nothing.’

‘Look at the boulder on the north side of the little stream.’ The old man’s eyes were still shut.

Abbas stood slowly and scanned the banks of the little stream below. He stared hard at the boulder that loomed above the stream. He saw nothing for a minute or more, then all at once he saw the shape of a wolf in the shadow of the rock.

‘Hai-wah!’ he said. ‘I see it!’ Then he said to the old man, who was still on his back with his hands behind his head, ‘How did you know?’

The old man was smiling with his eyes shut. ‘The wolf has been there since we ate our sandwiches,’ he said.

Abbas looked back at the boulder. Again, he couldn’t see the wolf. Then he could.

‘Hai-wah!’ he said. ‘Why does it stand there?’

Now the old man sat up and reached behind himself to brush the dust and dry grass from the back of his jacket. ‘He is waiting to see if you fall asleep. See how he waits with the breeze in his face? The dog cannot catch his scent while he remains there.’

‘Use your rifle, grandfather! Shoot the wolf!’

The old man was on his feet now. He was staring down to where the wolf was hidden. He was smiling. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘We will not shoot the wolf.’

‘Why not?’ said Abbas. Sometimes he couldn’t follow the old man’s reasoning. It made him angry. ‘The wolf will take our lambs. Why not shoot him now?’

The old man said, ‘No, he will not take any of your flock. He is waiting to feed on the afterbirth when the pregnant ewes drop their lambs. He is an old wolf – as old as me. We know each other.’

Abbas looked at his grandfather. The smile on his face made all the lines and furrows deeper. He seemed happy. Abbas thought, ‘Maybe he is losing his wits. That would be a great shame.’

The old man looked at Abbas and kept his smile. The boy thought, ‘Surely he can’t read my mind?’

‘Did I not tell you that the wolf is the most intelligent creature in the world?’ he said. ‘Now I will show you.’

He picked up the rifle, pulled the bolt lever aside then pushed it home. He gave the rifle to Abbas. ‘Aim at the wolf,’ he said.

Abbas had fired a rifle before, but it was a modern rifle, much lighter than the old Russian weapon. Even with a modern rifle, he was not a good shot. Perhaps average. But he did what the old man said. He planted his feet apart and with the stock of the rifle buried in his shoulder he raised the barrel and searched in the sight for the wolf. When he found the wolf in the shadow he adjusted the sight so that the gun was aimed at the wolf’s head.

‘Will I shoot?’ he said.

‘No,’ said the old man. ‘Tell me, Abbas, what is the wolf doing now?’

‘He is standing still.’

‘Where is he looking?’

‘He is looking at us.’

‘Now give me the rifle,’ said the old man, and he planted his feet and aimed the rifle at the wolf. To Abbas’ surprise, the wolf withdrew deeper into the shadows. Then the old man returned the rifle to Abbas. As soon as Abbas had hold of the rifle, the wolf re-appeared.

‘Do you see?’ said the old man. ‘Do you understand, Abbas?’

‘No,’ said Abbas.

The old man took the rifle from the boy and pulled the bolt lever aside. Then he rested the rifle on the ground.

‘The wolf knows that you cannot fire a rifle such as this accurately enough to endanger him. But he knows that I can.’

‘How does he know?’ said Abbas. He didn’t feel ashamed to be seen as a poor shot. Everybody knew it.

‘His brain tells him,’ said the old man. Then he added, ‘Do you think you could throw a stone from here and hit the wolf?’

Abbas studied the distance to the boulder and the wolf. It was twice as far as the shadow cast by a tall tree. Although Abbas was not a good shot with a rifle, he could throw a stone with great accuracy. All the boys who guarded sheep on the hills could throw a stone with great skill. It was necessary in the day to throw stones at the goats, who would climb up to rocky parts of the valley and stay there. Why the goats should wish to climb away from the grass and into the rocks was a mystery. Abbas thought they did it simply because they could and for no other reason. Simply because they could and to make his life difficult. If the dog chased down every goat that climbed into the rocks, he would tire himself out, so Abbas threw stones at the mischievous goats until they came down to escape the blows. He knew he could hit the wolf with a well-aimed stone from where he stood.

‘Yes, I can hit him from here.’

‘Pick up a stone,’ said the old man.

Abbas searched on the ground for a good stone, one that was not too heavy and that felt good in his hand. When he’d found one, he asked the old man if he should throw the stone and hit the wolf.

‘Hold the stone ready to throw,’ said the old man.

When Abbas raised his arm, the wolf withdrew.