So she was not terribly interested in this other legend, the one about Maryam Zamani, which she had also heard before but did not consider worth remembering now. Instead, she asked, “What is it like over there, in the north, where the women wear tall hats and walk alongside men?”

“Over there, they have all heard about you. The girl who moved the rock.”

Well, perhaps the legend was worth hearing again. Infused with his pride, she dwelled on it a while, the one about the Gujjar girl whose name was Maryam Zamani, who would go with her friends to Balakot to bring water from a stream. Every day, the girls had to cross a huge stone of uneven, sharp surfaces. Every day they cut themselves, returning home with feet bloodied and knees ragged. It occurred to Maryam Zamani one day that they could simply remove the stone instead. The others asked how. “With courage,” she replied. And the stone rolled away.

She did not believe it, of course, the legendary Maryam had nothing to do with her, nor did she believe the legend itself (how could a stone roll away on its own?) but if she pretended to be impressed, Ghafoor, the traveler, the trader, the garlic breather and honey carrier, would tell her what it was like over there.

And he did. He showed her the nugget of white jade he had traded in the higher highlands, from a Chinese merchant who told him that every color of jade changed the one who wore it. White jade made you calm and helped you focus on a task, such as the moving of a stone. He grinned. He was a higher highland Gujjar, unhemmed in by the lowlands where she was stuck, with legends. She worried, briefly, that this business with the jade and the merchant too was unreal, that it too was the stuff of legend. She was perfectly able to concentrate already, without the jade, on the taste on her tongue. All she needed was his finger and the honey. He was laughing. “Never let anyone make an old woman of you.” He paused. “Even when you marry. My travels will keep me young and I never want to see you old.”

When they entered the cave, he teased that her prayers were pagan prayers, what with all the burning of juniper branches and the smoke staining the cave walls and the visions she claimed to have. (A lie Kagan would surely forgive. She could never admit to him that though a shaman’s child, she never had any visions.)

“Not to mention all the offerings of food,” he looked around.

“Silly,” she said with a frown, “the food is for you.” And from a crack in the rock she removed a small stash of rice and misri (hoping again for Kagan’s forgiveness, for these were indeed offerings to the goddess).

And then he sang for her, the same song that would be sung on her wedding, and when each of her three children were born. First Younis, then Kiran, then Jumanah. It was the poem called Saiful Maluk, about the prince who fell in love with the fairy princess of the lake. And again she saw them as one. Like Ghafoor, the prince had come from over the mountains, though, in the song, the prince was bow-legged and tied his turban all wrong. Moreover, he lost his sword when he saw the princess bathing in the lake. The song made her laugh, it made her blush.

The prince with the turban on backwards

Dropped his sword when the fairy leaned forwards

And when he jumped off his horse

Oh the arc of his legs!

Oh the slope of her breasts!

Oh the jinn with his fire and his flame!

Sometimes he brought his flute, or, if she were lucky, his algoja, the twin flute of the Rajasthan desert that was equally beloved by mountain gypsies. She loved how he made the first flute hum with his nose while trilling a melody on the second with his tongue. (Sometimes, while drawing honey from his fingers, she would imagine the flute; it was her tongue and her nose creating the notes.) She loved also the jangling ornaments that were strung around the length of the wood, the way they bobbed with the beat as he moved his head and shut his eyes so as not to see her dance. If he opened his eyes, she kept swaying, keeping her gaze intent on the beads and the golden thread.

When he got to the part about the prince and princess fleeing the jinn and sheltering in a cave, she could not help but meet his eyes, for they were in the same cave, and it was theirs. The jade around her neck was smooth and hot against her naked flesh, when it ought to have been cold.


Years later, she still wore the jade. She could feel it against her skin, under her black shirt, as she entered the cave and stared at the sign. It had been years since the last one. Why now? Why was he about to return, and from where? There was a churning in her gut. That misgiving again. And yet, there was excitement too. She was never unhappy to see him.

Maryam offered her prayers and scattered rice in the crack in the wall. She asked the goddess to protect her. She asked her mother to protect her. She asked her father too. But even the white jade around her neck did nothing to help her focus. While praying, she could not stop staring at the sign. A single blue feather, from a kingfisher’s wing. Might it be a coincidence? Perhaps a kingfisher had nestled here through the winter and left behind this gift.

Maryam hastily ended her prayers — she did everything in a hurry this year! — and walked around the pillars, the ones left behind from an age of rubies. They held up the cave the way sticks are meant to hold up a tent — again her thoughts drifted to the plastic sheeting, sagging and leaky, and to Kiran, whose movements could not be contained — though in truth, the cave did not need them. Like a womb, it was complete in itself. The deeper inside the womb she moved, the narrower it grew, and cooler. The drop in temperature soothed her. She pressed her palms to the walls, hunched her shoulders, let the tightening enclose her. Her fingers traced scratches from a time before. Hunters with turbans, hunters with bare heads. Antelope and buffalo. Owls and horses. Her favorite glyph was that of three horses, one bowing, one dancing, and the third looking back. Hospitality, liberty, and memory. On either side of the trinity hovered an owl, each vaguely ovoid, with eyes wide as wheels. Each time she stood here, fingering the dreams of the dead, she could hear her mother say, Horses are the wings to this world, owls to the next.

She could hear wings. Not the rapid wingbeats of birth or the slow wingbeats of death. These were oily, sly. Bats: wings to the in-between. She dropped to her knees on the ground, which was littered with sharp stones — the legend Maryam could have willed these away — and crawled deeper into the cave that embraced her till there was nowhere left for her to press. Long ago, Ghafoor would swear, the cave led all the way through the mountains to places she would never see. Kashgar, Bishkek, Tashkent. And she would think, only if you were a bat. Now she ran her hands along the walls. Drawings, yes, but no windows, no doors. No trace of a second feather either. Or a nest. Or an eggshell. Or a ruby, for that matter. The blue feather had not been left by a nesting kingfisher; this was a bird that kept to open skies. The blue feather had been left as a sign. He was coming.

She thought of the other sign she had been given just last night. An owl had swooped across the lake. She was leaving her drooping tent to bathe at the water’s edge — her husband enjoyed that she performed the ritual each time they had sex no matter where they had it — when she saw the white wings. Circling and circling. Followed by a call. She had not gone back to sleep.

The churning in her stomach quickened. She prayed to her mother again — this time refusing to stare at the blue feather, or the drawings, or the bats — before leaving the cave. Then she hurried back toward the lake and the tents. Naked Mountain was at her back. Queen of the Mountains lay ahead, still preening. And Kiran was still with the woman who walked like a goat.

She thought she could see the white man rowing back to shore. Irfan and his friend were too far away to see, but it seemed to her that the woman was pulling Kiran toward them. She would have to teach Kiran to mingle less with guests. She rehearsed the warning in her head. Stay near the pastures where your goats graze, or at least within sight of our tent. After which she would add, the one I told you to fix.

Maryam walked faster. It was Ghafoor’s wish that she always keep her youth, even once married, and she had. Her pace never slowed. Each spring, on their long trek up to these slopes, she was the one who kept moving when all the others stopped to rest. Ghafoor would also have kept his youth, she was certain. And when her children were grown, so would they. She always prayed for this at the shrine.

Maryam contemplated heading straight for the guests to pull Kiran away and scold her, but she knew it would not do to approach them herself. So she made for her tent, pulled back the flap — black and tattered like bat wings — and hastened inside to tell her husband that tea would have to wait. First, he needed to bring Kiran back.

Cold Feet

I hadn’t forgotten Irfan’s question.

The clouds continued circling the mountain summit, a scarlet whirlpool in the sky. They caressed him like a memory, so pretty, so mean. And the honey on my fingers so sweet. Beside me, Irfan lay peaceful and still, arms folded behind his neck, perhaps asleep. I, on the other hand, lay fully awake. Too awake.

Wes and Farhana. My fingers probed the scar. There they went, under my jacket, under my shirt. It was a long scar, though the cut had not been deep. But there had been a lot of blood.