Page 12 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

Now, as he lay with his mother’s cellphone clasped to his chest.

He’d once thought that Sarhad was at the very edge of anything remotely like civilization. He wasn’t wrong either.

At the moment, he was trapped in a camp of Kyrgyz nomads and, on the northern edge of Lake Chaqmaqtin.

This was, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere.

Sarhad was two weeks’ walk away in the opposite direction.

Karchyndy and Bourguitiar were closer, but these were outposts, little more than a handful of yurts and mud-and-stone houses.

Even worse, the Little Pamir’s current leader lived in Bourguitiar.

Run there, and he’d be returned almost instantly.

Or maybe wind up somewhere worse. Yes, there was always that, given what he was. They might sell me.

Ibrahim had done exactly that, about two weeks after Zahid’s spit oozed, slimy and slick, between Poya’s toes.

After his left eye slipped, Poya stayed close to home.

Didn’t go to school, didn’t wander about by himself for long, though his neighbor still allowed him to groom his horses and herd his goats.

Everyone in Sarhad had heard some version of Zahid’s story about the demon-boy.

People had a field day with that. Some hinted that Poya had eaten his mother.

Others worried that she might have been conjured or was a jinn in her own right, and what about the children she’d taught?

Were they safe? Fearful gossip like that was a marvelous incentive towards making oneself scarce.

In a way, he really wasn’t surprised when, one afternoon, Ibrahim brought Amu to look Poya over.

(Although Ibrahim made sure Poya’s eyes were in beforehand.

No sense in spooking a potential client.) A frowning Amu poked and prodded Poya’s muscles and even checked his teeth before agreeing to buy Poya for twenty sheep.

That, Poya later discovered, was only a fifth of what a man might pay for a bride.

Once a girl began to bleed, she was worth over a hundred sheep.

Women were expensive out here since most died young and in childbirth.

Their children weren’t spared either. With no medical care and a limited diet, many never saw their fifth or sixth birthday.

So, people bred early in the Wakhan and often.

Which meant his time was short.

Running was the only option.

But where? Could he even hope to outrun Amu? The man would surely come after him, especially if Poya took an animal. Yet, without a donkey or yak or one of the four ill-tempered camels the clan owned, Poya would gain very little ground each day.

Stealing an animal, though, also meant stealing feed. These people didn’t have a lot for their animals to begin with. Could he doom some of their remaining animals to starvation? Or, worse, Amu or another clansmen having to walk for two weeks, in brutal cold, to Sarhad to barter for feed?

His father once showed him a film, Catch-22.

Poya was smart, but he’d not understood it well at the time.

Now, though, he did because he was living the movie’s circular logic.

On the one hand, it was suicide to run. But, on the other, if he didn’t, he was almost certainly going to wind up in a position where he might well die anyway.

You’ll think of something. You’re smart. You know things.

Well, maaaybe. A small imp of doubt scratched the back of his brain. Yes, yes, you’re very bookish. You know movies. You’re smart. But can you hunt? Do you know how to start a fire or build a shelter in winter? Do you know how to find your way if you ? —

“Oh, be quiet,” he muttered. Even if he’d known how to hunt, there was nothing here to hunt.

Every self-respecting snow leopard knew that.

Although the felines stuck mostly to the mountains north and west, there were stories of hunger driving the animals down here into the Little Pamir.

There was a reason children went for water together. There was safety in numbers.

As for building a shelter or starting a fire…there were no trees in a valley this high. None of the other children here had ever seen a tree or even a bush. Amu and the rest of clan—all the nomads, in fact—burned dried yak dung cakes.

He knew the math. One cake lasted about seven hours.

Assuming his trek to wherever lasted a week, he needed at least two cakes every night.

Add in a few days’ extra fuel just in case…

well, that was a lot of yak poo to drag around.

He could do it, but he had other things he needed to take.

Some were weighty, but he’d never leave those items behind, no matter what.

Which meant that he’d probably be lugging around at least twelve or fifteen kilos on his back.

Thanks to the time he’d spent here, he was much stronger with more muscle than before but still relatively slim.

Hiking over mountain passes in winter would be a problem, however, and that brought him, full-circle, right back to stealing an animal.

He couldn’t wait for much longer either. Mami had been right. The decision, out of his hands before, was being made for him, in inexorable increments, with each passing day.

His hands balled with frustration. If only the American had kept his promises!

Things would be so different. His parents would be alive.

He wouldn’t be in this mess. He wouldn’t have to hide who he was in America.

Oh, people might stare, but Baba had said that, in America, no one cursed you for being Satan’s spawn.

If Poya wanted out, his own two feet would have to do.

He couldn’t wait until the thaw either when Sarbaz’s mining operations would start up again.

Sarbaz himself came to check on things at intervals and there were always workers but no trucks.

Once the snow disappeared, that would change.

Could he stow away on a lorry? No, that was no good.

The trucks were headed the wrong way. He needed to get out of Afghanistan not deeper into the country.

I have got to find a way out of here. Mami’s cell phone still clasped to his chest, Poya felt a familiar sting at the backs of his eyes. Crying would be safe now. He was hidden behind his shyrdak. But his tears would change nothing. Gritting his teeth, he willed his eyes to remain dry.

You are on your own. What Poya wanted or who he had been didn’t matter. That would change, however, if anyone discovered his secret. Gooseflesh pebbled his skin. Amu probably wouldn’t kill him. But there were other things Amu could do. None would be pleasant.

Please, don’t betray me, please. Poya pressed the cell to his chest. Please hold off just a little bit longer.

If his body cooperated, if he could just hold on until spring…well, then, he just might have a chance.