Prince of Afghanistan Read online

  Prince sits in the water, the reflected moonlight making him look as if his fur is covered in frost. What is called a river in Afghanistan would only be a creek back in Australia. Emerald Creek runs behind my family’s house and during her last summer my mother would sit in the shallow eddies at night, cooling off, as Prince is doing. She’d sit in the water for hours in her blue bikini staring at the top of the burning mountain, which glowed red in the darkness. Something was happening to her body. She had begun to lose weight and the doctors had no idea what was the cause. Some thought it might have been the result of poisonous gases escaping from the cracks in the earth as the underground coal burned. Even if that was true, she didn’t want to leave the town where she had been born.

  As she grew more ill she’d gaze for hours out the windows, as if hankering for something in the beyond. She stopped cooking dinner, so Dad or I did it, only we were woeful chefs and we mostly ate canned food. Mum would pick at her meal but she seemed so preoccupied that she cared nothing for food, it was as if she thought she could survive on air alone. She grew thinner, lived in her dressing gown, went barefoot most of the time. Dad bought her a pair of scarlet slippers so her feet would be warm. Just click them together and you’ll be back in Kansas, he said to her, making a joke out of her favourite film, The Wizard of Oz. During winter, when it was snowing and too cold to go outside, she’d stand in the living room, staring at her feet and snapping her heels together as she tried to make her soft slippers click.

  I was only eleven at the time but I knew that something was deeply wrong and that there was no cure for whatever was making her ill. When spring came she’d stand on the back verandah and gaze at Emerald Creek as it swelled with melting snow; or she’d close her eyes, trying to click her slippers together, and then on opening them she’d look around, grimacing with disappointment that she wasn’t where she wanted to be. She showed no interest in what Dad and I said to her and she stopped talking altogether, as if it were too much effort to listen or to speak. She didn’t like being touched but she’d allow me or Dad to comb her long blonde hair, something she had always enjoyed. We’d do it because it relaxed her and she’d smile to herself as if at some secret joke. Both Dad and I pretended not to smell the whisky or wine on her breath.

  The feeling in the house was so awful, so filled with my mother’s silence and my father’s sighs, that when not at school I’d try to spend as much time as possible outdoors, hunting with Casey or exploring the rusting mining machinery scattered across the mountain. The mine was supposed to re-open when a way was found to the stop the underground coal burning. There had been a mysterious explosion deep in a tunnel that caused a fire which couldn’t be put out. Because of that the mine was too dangerous to work in and had to close.

  The town was nicknamed Burning Mountain. The grass withered and the trees caught fire, so that the area around the mine became a steaming desert. Most of the locals had something to do with the mine, whether as workers or people married to miners, as office staff or techies like my father, the chief engineer. If the mine had been at the bottom of a valley the creek could have been diverted, with the water flooding the tunnels to put out the fires, but as it was at the top of a hill it was impossible to do that. My father was one of the few men kept on by the mine owners in the hope that a solution would be found, but when he stopped going to his office because there was nothing to do, he seemed resigned to the mine never re-opening.

  Late one morning Dad looked in on Mum only to see her dead on top of the bedclothes, wearing her dressing gown and red slippers, with the window wide open and the room freezing cold. After the funeral, Dad kept even more to himself. We’d eat our baked beans or sausages in silence. He’d sit on the front verandah at night, drinking whisky, staring into the night, as if he were waiting for Mum to come back. He didn’t seem to notice me. Sometimes he’d roast a rabbit or wallaby I’d shot when I was out hunting with Casey. One dinner he was eating a rabbit leg when he suddenly spat out a bullet. He paused to look at it on the side of his plate and laughed. It was the first time he had laughed since the funeral. Thank goodness it wasn’t grapeshot! I laughed too, just out of pleasure at seeing him happy for a moment. Most times he ate and slept by himself in the study. When Casey’s family found out about my home life they’d have me around to dinner most nights. At first it was awkward but soon Casey was treating me like his younger brother. Sometimes I slept over but if I didn’t, I’d go home and, if I saw a light under the study door, I’d knock and open the door, poke my head in and say goodnight. If Dad were not too drunk or depressed he’d say he loved me and he’d get better. That’s a promise, son.

  At school I was the class clown. At home I was lonely and asked for a Labrador like the one Casey had, but dad wouldn’t allow it. On one occasion when I asked him, his face twisted in a fury as if he wanted to throttle me. I backed away. He must have seen my fear because his face softened. I’m sorry, son, I’m bad luck. Everything I touch turns to dust. My job, your beautiful mother. The dog would only die. I’m a curse. I’m bad luck. I could see in his tortured eyes that he fully believed this, because it struck me that he hadn’t touched me since my mother died.

  I remember her look of relief when she sat cooling off in the water in the moonlight; now, sitting in the creek, Prince has the same expression. He notices me looking at him and he stares back at me with the confidence of an equal. Never having had a dog of my own, I’m beginning to understand Casey’s love for him. It’s us two against the Taliban, mate. He must realise I said something to him because he walks out of the river and, after a quick shake, drying him but wetting me, he sits down at my feet. Good boy, good boy, we’re going to get back and you can have your special ball to play with, I whisper, and he licks my hand.

  8

  I pack a few pomegranates in my kit and we set out to climb the steep hills, zigzagging our way up and down, using the goat and sheep tracks. The air is cool and we’re making good time. It’s only when dawn comes and I’m looking for a village to raid for food that I’m stunned by the realisation that the valley we are supposed to be entering is not there.

  In front of us is a series of steep, sharp ridges. I’m bewildered; somehow I made a wrong turning during the night. I have no idea where we are. I study the map and try to orientate myself. It’s nigh on impossible. The map is vague about the areas to the south-east of the valley, showing hills and mountains but not names or distances. That must be where I am now. I have no idea how far we have travelled from the valley I want. It could be kilometres – but how many? How could I be so stupid? We’re lost. I slump down on the ground in despair.

  I feel Prince staring at me. He seems sad like me. It’s then I remember Casey telling me that dogs are sensitive to their handler’s emotions. If you’re having a bad day, the dog is going to have a bad day. I glance at him and then away, feeling guilty. This is no good. I have to convince him I know where we are. I jump up, pretending enthusiasm. There’s no need to look at me that way, my Black Prince, I’m completely on top of things. Now to nick a sheep. His eyes immediately brighten. There’s a movement above us and looking at the clear blue sky, I notice what looks like a vulture, or maybe it’s an eagle, drifting around in circles in the hot air currents. Perhaps because it’s so high up it can see the whole countryside and knows we’re lost and alone and is waiting for us to die.

  The sight of the predator makes me determined to keep moving. We head west, down a steep incline and across a ridge. The sun is rising and we need shelter. On top of the ridge I try to find some sort of landmark that might be on the map, but there’s none. The only thing to do is to double back to where the valley should be. I give Prince a drink of water and I’m about to have a sip of it myself when I see what looks like a man-made structure to the south-east, just beyond another, smaller ridge. It’s nestled in a spot between hills, like a small village or an observation fort like the one we stayed in. The important thing is that if it’s empty it can be our refuge for t
he day, and maybe we’ll find some food there before we head in the right direction again. I nod to a frowning Prince as if to say, I know what I’m doing, mate.

  It takes us nearly two hours to reach the next ridge because for Prince each step of his raw pads on the hot earth is painful. Just in case the place is occupied, I crawl to the crest. Prince crawls on his belly beside me, as he’s been taught. The buildings are surrounded by mud walls, with a clump of trees in the main yard. The front gates are open and I can’t see anything moving; human or animal. The sun is beating down on us so relentlessly that my sweat evaporates on my skin in seconds.

  There’s no other alternative. As we walk down the slope I occasionally stop to make sure no one is in the compound. I listen but can hear nothing, only my heavy breathing and Prince’s panting. When we’re within a hundred metres I notice dozens of tyre marks and footprints leading out of the compound. The wind hasn’t blown them away so they must have been made not so long ago. My heart begins to thump and a queasy feeling takes hold of me. Just how recent are they? And is anyone still inside? I clutch my rifle tightly, take a deep breath and we go through the open gates. There’s a small pond near the four poplar trees in the far corner and a vegetable garden with spades and forks scattered across it and nearby an upended wheelbarrow as if the gardeners have left in a hurry.

  The signs of an exodus give me the jitters. Why have these people fled so quickly and will they be coming back? Prince glances up at me. He’s puzzled too. I hear a noise and spin around, but it’s only the flapping of a plastic sheet covering one of the windows. I don’t know how much time we’ve got but we have to hurry. The first thing is to get some food; for Prince, preferably meat. We cross the compound yard to a doorway. It’s covered in a dark blue cloth. I pull it open and peer inside. My eyes take a few moments to grow used to the dim light, then I make out that the shapes on the floor are mattresses, maybe up to a dozen of them.

  We move on to the next door. It’s wooden and unlocked. I push it open, step inside and reel at the stink of sweetness and decay. There is the sharp odour of marijuana. Attached to the far wall are rows of shelves covered in dried poppy plants. Stacked along the wall are two-hundred-litre drums. I look inside one and see kilos of brown sludge. I recognise the smell. On the far benches is distilling equipment – glass tubes, bottles of chemicals, lumps of semi-processed heroin and sacks of opium. I’ve seen set-ups like this before. It’s a heroin production laboratory. And a big one by the looks of it.

  I’m about to step back into the sunshine when I hear a squeaky child’s voice, speaking in English. Rifle on the ground and put your hands up! I turn and see a fleeting movement in the three large piles of marijuana plants. Then everything is still for a moment before a figure comes into the light, with dried hemp and twigs stuck to her clothes. She’s about a metre tall, wearing a brown burqa with the face grille torn away and holding a revolver in both hands, which she’s pointing at me. I’m so surprised to see her that I can only stare at her like an idiot. The rifle! she demands. I put it on one of the workbenches. I hear Prince come in. I kill you first and then the dog. She aims the pistol at Prince, who goes still, tensing his body. His eyes, like two laser beams, focus on her throat and his lips begin to tremble as if he’s muttering to himself – I know what that means. Stay, stay Prince. He doesn’t hear me and I have to tap him on the flank and let him know I don’t want him to attack her. Now the gun! she orders, and I place the Glock next to the rifle.

  The girl laughs and steps closer. The revolver seems enormous in her tiny hands. She points it at Prince. What happens if I kill your dog? I don’t say anything. Her English has a strong American accent. The sunlight pours into the room and catches her eyes, the only part of her body visible. They are an unhealthy red with yellow rings. Do you know where my guys went? I shake my head. Woke up before, and they’d hit the road. Big surprise. Didn’t tell me. She peers up at me. You’re not American?

  No, I’m Australian.

  An Aussie?

  Yes.

  You’re a long way from home, buddy.

  It’s as I meet her gaze that I notice she has lines around her eyes, like a middle-aged person. I glance at her tiny hands; they’re wrinkled like those of an adult. Prince sits at my side waiting for my command. His head is bent forward and he’s sniffing the girl as if trying to figure out who’s under the burqa. She takes a few careful steps backwards. Hey, pal, control that mutt or I’ll shoot its head off.

  I pull Prince back, patting him on the neck, letting him know I’m in control and to keep calm.

  So watcha doin’ here, Aussie?

  Just passing by.

  Out here? What are you – some kind of bozo? I repeat my question. Here? Why?

  Food.

  She makes a rough, loud sound, as if she’s trying to clear her throat of something dangerous and coughs loudly. Ack! Ack!

  I jump, it’s so strange and unexpected. The girl giggles at my reaction. Ack! Ack! she coughs again. I catch Prince looking at me, wondering why I reacted the way I did, because, of course, he’s heard nothing. The girl laughs. You know, when my guys return, they’re gonna pat me on the back. I got me a prisoner and his dirty dog. I’ll get respect.

  She looks around the room. Kinda stinks, doesn’t it? But you get used to it. Turn around … and keep your mitts up!

  I don’t like turning my back on her but do as I’m told. The same with your mutt – I don’t like the way he’s staring at me.

  He’s deaf. He can’t hear.

  She breaks into her Ack! Ack! cry and follows it up with a tinny laugh as if she’s enjoying making me uncomfortable. I hear her grunt with effort behind me. It gets damn hot in this. Something soft falls onto the floorboards. Hey, Aussie, get a load of this. I turn around and I’m astonished by what I see. This is no girl pointing a gun at me; it’s a boy wearing dirty white runners, bright red shorts, blue suspenders to hold them up, and a pink T-shirt with a cute child’s face, big saucer eyes and the words Mother’s Little Helper printed across the image.

  He’s tiny. His legs are thin as sticks, though his face is that of an adult. Without the burqa he looks naked, like a turtle without its shell. Either he’s a dwarf or a midget. Yeah, I know, he says, smiling slyly, I am not quite like a man. I am a tiny man. But a man all the same, and I can kill you as easily as any normal guy. He laughs again, and bursts into the weird strangled cry of Ack! Ack!

  He holds the revolver in one hand and rubs his forehead with the other as if he has forgotten something. I don’t know where it is, the tiny man finally says, as if he were answering a question of mine. He surveys the room and shakes his head, as if appalled by what he sees. Let’s get out of here, too many temptations, buddy.

  He prods me in the back with his gun and ushers me out, saying, Remember, Aussie, I could blow a hole as big as a fist in your back. We cross the dirt courtyard to another room, with no door, just a grey blanket covering it. He motions with his gun for me to go inside. Prince comes in with me. Barely the size of a toilet, the room smells of stale sweat and dirty clothes. A dump I call home, the squeaky voice behind me says. There it is! he cries, brushing past me and picking up a large, slim paperback. He hugs it to his chest with one arm and smacks his lips. I feel thirsty.

  We walk back across the compound to another doorway. The room inside has a window, so it isn’t as dark as the others. Thick oriental rugs, pillows and cushions are scattered on the floor; all coloured blue, red, yellow and green. The walls are hung with ruby-red velvet drapes. It’s a living room and reception area. There’s another room off to the side, which looks like a kitchen. You’re worth more to me alive than dead, he says, tugging at my sleeve and looking up at me with his sly smile. He’s enjoying making me feel uneasy. Suddenly he cries out, Get him away! and tumbles backwards. Prince must have accidentally touched him. The revolver drops from his hand when he lands. If I’d been closer I could have made a jump for it, but he knows what I’m thinking and, still on his bac
k, grabs the gun and points it up at me. If that devil touches me one more time, buster, I’m gonna put a bullet through his head.

  He scrambles to his feet and grinds his teeth, agitated or maybe embarrassed by his outburst. He stares at Prince with undisguised loathing. He clutches his gun tightly as if debating whether to shoot him or not. I step between him and Prince. By the time you shoot him I’d have jumped you, I warn. He can see that I mean it.

  Get him outside. Now!

  Prince has no idea what is happening. Under the watchful eye of the midget, I motion Prince to stay outside near the doorway. The midget points me into the next room. It’s like most Afghan kitchens: basic – with a gas-cylinder stove, a small kerosene fridge, sacks of food and cans of cooking oil. Unwashed plates and food are scattered on a wooden bench as if the preparations for a meal have been interrupted. Ah, raisins, he says, scoffing down a handful he takes from a bowl. He chews them hungrily, brown juice running down the sides of his mouth. He doesn’t offer me any but watches me carefully as he eats. Then he picks at the raisins stuck between his teeth and asks me what I’m doing here.

  I was on a patrol when I got lost.

  He smiles, as if he doesn’t believe me. When my boys come back, they’ll get the right answer. Name?