As Swallows Fly Page 3

  ‘But I know calculus,’ she pleaded. ‘I do.’

  ‘The professor said everyone does this the first time. Even him.’

  She nodded and bit her tongue. When she looked up, she saw Tahir disappearing around a distant hut.

  After spring came the heat and then the harvest, although the older men shook their heads as the grain only half-filled the silos. Fortunately, and to the relief of the whole village, rains followed. The men smiled easily enough through the mud on their way to the fields, knowing that God had blessed their lives for another year.

  When not studying, Malika’s chores were her life. She worked with the other young women to fetch water from the well or wood from the large shed, and to ensure the vegetables and herbs were well tended. One time early in the morning, as she stood at the edge of the village, a flight of swallows flew past a nearby tree and swooped across the nearby fields. She watched the rhythm of their flight, the way the birds moved as one and yet didn’t. She frowned as she studied them, seeing how the birds on the edge deviated beyond the reach of the others, sometimes returning, sometimes not, and how the whole flock would then close on them to stay intact. The pulse of their movement was like a beat within her chest. It was only when Fatima, washing basket on her hip, called to her that she returned to her chores.

  One morning, Ayesha could not get out of bed. Malika felt her cheeks and forehead. They were burning.

  ‘You have the fever,’ she said.

  The woman nodded. ‘Before you leave, you must fetch me some water.’

  ‘I will stay,’ said Malika.

  Her heart beat strongly and her hands trembled as she filled the pail with cool water at the well. Ayesha’s body radiated heat as she sponged her down. The older woman smiled and held her hand as she finished.

  ‘It is good you are here.’

  Malika told Fatima and the others when they arrived for her that she needed to care for the woman that day. The day turned into a week. Ayesha became confused, calling out for her husband in the early hours of the morning. Malika could hardly get her to take the water she offered. The other women came; the husband of one of them had worked as a hospital orderly in the Great City.

  ‘She needs hospital medicine,’ this woman said.

  ‘Perhaps Father Louis will have medicine when he comes,’ said Malika.

  ‘We should pray,’ said another woman. She got to her knees.

  In a circle, they recited the rosary three times as Ayesha moaned in the corner. Malika had prayed fruitlessly many times to her parents, waiting for a sign they heard her. It never came. But her chest heaved to think of life with Ayesha gone. She bowed her head and swore to the Divine Mother she would offer her life to God if she would intercede.

  Three days later, against the expectations of the elders, and after Malika had completed countless decades of the rosary, Ayesha called to Malika in the early morning, asking her for some of the broth she could smell. Malika burned her fingers as she heated the soup and poured it into a bowl.

  ‘Not too fast,’ she said, as she pushed the spoon against the woman’s lips.

  Ayesha swallowed, gasped and smiled, and squeezed Malika’s fingers. As she lowered Ayesha’s head to the mattress, Malika bowed her head and wondered what the Divine Mother would ask of her.

  As the season passed, Malika and Fatima began to spend more time with the other young women. They would gather in a group in the square after dinner as the days lengthened, and talk. Malika noticed that now, instead of telling how they would search the world as they had once dreamed, they now spoke of making their lives inside the village. Some were already eyeing certain young men, knowing their parents were in discussion. Now and then, the talk would turn to Tahir, who was as tall as a man and had hairs on his chin.

  Fatima shuddered as she spoke of him. ‘He lives with hate,’ she said in a low voice, and the other girls nodded. ‘I pray I am not in his thoughts.’

  Malika admitted as much to herself. She never saw him smile and his chosen isolation had become a festering sore on the village’s conscience. Though a part of the village, he was also separate. She wondered how someone could live as he did. She wondered how long he would stay.

  One morning, when the worst of the summer rains had past, Malika set off to clean the goat pen. Their enclosure was at the far end of the village near the water buffalos, each as far as possible from the train tracks. Ayesha had explained to her that before Malika had arrived, the water buffalo pen was closest to the rail line. One night a buffalo broke loose and was killed by an overnight train. It was a loss the village could not afford.

  She was astonished to see Tahir at the goat pen. The week had been busy and Malika had not seen him. He shrugged when she arrived, then turned away and began sweeping. He pushed the goats away from the dirty straw beneath them before scooping it away with the broom. Seeing what needed to be done, Malika filled her arms with clean straw and threw it onto the ground as Tahir made space. One goat had just delivered a litter and together they picked up the small, pink forms and placed them into the first pen, which was now clean. For a moment as they each held a tiny kid, their eyes met and Tahir’s features softened. It was as close to a smile as he had shown her since he left the hut. Malika wished he would show her more.

  They mucked out and swept the rest of the pens in silence. The goats brayed and urinated immediately on the clean straw when it was placed beneath them. It made Malika roll her eyes. As usual, Malika knew Tahir looked at her when he thought her back was turned or that hair across her face prevented her from seeing him. She had grown to like it, their secret.

  They had almost finished: the old concrete trough was filled and they only needed to lay down fresh straw in the hutches. They leaned on their straw brooms for a moment before beginning. On her right, Malika noticed the lactating goat lying on its side. Its fresh litter had backed it into a corner, but there were more kids than teats. The runt, its tail wagging furiously, blind and bleating, had missed out again nudged aside by a sibling. Tahir watched for a minute, his face expressionless. Then without warning, he dropped his broom and stepped forward to the litter, pulling the bully off the teat. He held the offending kid high in one hand as he encouraged the smaller one forward. He watched for a moment until it latched on.

  Without glancing at Malika, he took the hapless animal to the trough and, with both hands around its neck, plunged it deep into the water. He didn’t lift it out until it lay still in his hands. It was over before Malika could think to act but her heart stopped as she watched. Tahir dropped the dead animal beside the trough. He stared at it a moment and then turned and walked out. He passed Malika on the way.

  ‘Kismet,’ he said, without shifting his gaze from the horizon.

  She could not move until he had gone, as she could not think that afternoon or sleep that night. The black fire in his eyes as he passed had scorched her soul, and she knew she would never understand him.

  By autumn, the afternoons were beginning to close in. One such Sunday, lessons finished, the sun suspended above the rooftops, Father Louis told her she was ready.

  ‘For what?’ she asked.

  ‘It is time you sat the test,’ he said.

  She shielded her eyes from the sun to look at him. ‘What good is a test when there are chores to be done?’

  He sighed and looked up at the giant trunk of the tree, his eyes following the branches to the sky.

  ‘Do you know where this tree came from, Malika?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘It has always been here.’

  ‘Before you and me, certainly. But the village built itself around this tree.’ He stood, picked up the box and began the walk to the car. Malika followed him.

  ‘Do the elders not know the answer?’ she asked.

  ‘Such trees do not belong here. But here it is.’

  ‘It does the village much good,’ she said.

  ‘It is already dying. Have you not seen the way its leaves drop before each
summer?’

  She nodded. She had seen that, this year in particular. ‘What will become of it? Of us?’ she added.

  ‘I do not know.’ He opened the car boot and placed his box inside. ‘But there are many other trees that would grow well here.’ He got into the car and smiled at her. ‘I will return in three weeks. Study hard.’

  She watched until the car disappeared into the haze and dust.

  Another priest came with Father Louis the next time. He was called Monsignor. They said Mass together in the large hut, which had been set up as usual. The unexpected arrival of the older, quiet man with the weary face and pink-lined black garments brought out the entire village. They barely fitted inside the building. Communion took twenty minutes. The older men said afterwards that a Monsignor was more important than a cardinal.

  After Mass, the Monsignor sat in a chair beneath the fig tree and asked to see Malika. She stood in front of him, answering his questions patiently. She saw Ayesha and Fatima at the side and wished they were near her. She glanced at Father Louis, but he shook his head.

  ‘Child, are you ready to sit this test?’ The Monsignor said eventually. His voice sounded as tired as his face looked.

  She nodded.

  ‘It is an important test.’

  It was important to Father Louis, too. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  He smiled as he turned to Father Louis. ‘The papers are in the car, Louis,’ he said.

  Tucking them under his arm, the Monsignor took Malika back into the church. As they stepped across the threshold, she caught a glimpse of Fatima before he shut the door and locked the world outside.

  The shadows were long across the square when Malika walked outside. Her eyes lit up when she saw Fatima rise from beneath the fig tree and cross the square towards her, then her legs wobbled without reason as her friend held out her hand.

  ‘Did you finish?’ Father Louis’ voice was anxious as he emerged from a hut.

  She nodded.

  ‘Was it too hard?’

  ‘No, except,’ and she smiled, ‘except the part where I had to write in Arabic.’

  The priest nodded. ‘That should be of little consequence.’ He looked up as the Monsignor emerged from the chapel.

  ‘We must go, Louis,’ he said. He looked at Malika. ‘We will know the test results soon.’

  Father Louis leaned over and placed his hands on Malika’s shoulders. He looked straight into her eyes. ‘Whatever happens, you did well today.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Eat dinner now and then rest.’

  The two men began walking to the car.

  ‘She has a singular gift,’ she heard the Monsignor say.

  ‘I hope she did well enough,’ the priest responded.

  ‘God reveals His own.’

  Fatima turned and gently pushed Malika towards her hut. ‘Your face is pale,’ she said. She danced lightly around her. ‘But Ayesha has promised a special meal tonight. For both our families.’

  ‘She is kind,’ said Malika. Her hand reached for her friend’s.

  ‘You are family for us both,’ said Fatima.

  Father Louis brought the news three Sundays later. As he knocked at the hut, his smile told Malika she had done well. ‘Too well,’ he said, laughing. He showed her the papers and then picked her up in his arms. She shrieked and Ayesha laughed. Malika could not remember another time when she had laughed.

  The priest put her down and straightened his shirt. He turned to Ayesha.

  ‘We must talk.’

  Ayesha’s face changed. ‘Will we need tea?’

  ‘Perhaps tea is a good idea.’

  ‘Malika, go and find the elders,’ said Ayesha. ‘Tell them Mass will be late today.’

  Ayesha and Malika ate dinner in silence that night. Afterwards, the older woman left to speak with the elders. Malika was in bed when she returned. She turned off the lamp as Ayesha’s head found the pillow, then lay on her back listening to the rats scurry across the roof.

  ‘It is settled,’ said Ayesha in the dark. ‘You will leave in three Sundays.’

  She sighed. ‘I must leave?’

  ‘Father says this village is no place for you.’ She paused. ‘Thinking of you will bring gladness to my heart.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I survived before you came.’

  Malika placed her hand on Ayesha’s arm. ‘I will miss you.’

  ‘You always have a bed here.’

  ‘I will come often.’

  The Friday before she was due to leave, Tahir stood at Ayesha’s door in the late afternoon sunshine and called for Malika. But it was Ayesha who appeared from the darkness. She leaned against the doorway and looked at the strong young man before her. Not even sixteen summers old and already the black hairs on his face were enough to form a beard. A stranger then, a stranger now. She folded her arms.

  ‘Greetings, Tahir,’ she said.

  He bowed his head. ‘Greetings, Ayesha.’

  ‘What do you wish of Malika?’

  ‘I wish to watch the sunset with her on her last night.’

  ‘There is a party planned for tomorrow. Is that not enough?’

  ‘We arrived together. It is right we should say farewell together also. There are things I wish to say.’

  Ayesha hesitated.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said.

  She spoke to Malika inside the hut.

  ‘Perhaps he wishes to make amends,’ she said. ‘And I know my leaving will be difficult for him.’

  ‘Perhaps Fatima should go with you.’

  Malika smiled. ‘He is Tahir,’ she said.

  ‘A man cannot be trusted with a young woman alone.’

  ‘We arrived here together as children. Now God has smiled on me and I am leaving. I know his pain.’

  Ayesha’s eyes stared at her, the light from the lamp flickering in their depths. Finally, she stepped outside.

  ‘She must be home by dark,’ she said to Tahir.

  ‘I wish to talk to her.’

  ‘Why can you not talk here?’

  ‘She will be home by dark.’

  They walked in silence to the edge of the village, crossing the railway line as a golden sun hung low over the wheat. They stood on the edge of the field.

  ‘Your last night in the village will be filled with stars,’ said Tahir, looking at the sky.

  Malika nodded. It had been a mistake to come. She could barely look at him. The image of the baby goat beside the water trough welled in her memory. It made her heart beat fast.

  They followed the edge of the field some way along before Tahir stopped at a small tree. He sat beneath it and beckoned Malika. She knew they were further from the village than usual, and sat a little distance from him. Tahir ignored her as he looked up.

  ‘From my first night here, I knew I was in a prison,’ said Tahir. He continued gazing upwards. ‘For me, nothing has changed.’

  ‘I will return one day,’ said Malika.

  ‘Why would you?’ he asked. He turned to her, but she looked away.

  She didn’t hear him, didn’t feel him move until it was too late, until he was almost upon her. His weight and his speed easily pushed her back. She gasped as her head hit a tree root and, dazed, tried to push him back. But he grabbed her wrists and pushed them into the dirt and cold dust.

  ‘Tahir, what are you doing?’ She tried to move, even to wriggle, but his heavy thighs straddled her legs. The weight of his body made her pant.

  ‘Tahir, stop. You must stop this. It is madness.’

  Why did she whisper? Why did she not shout out loud?

  Would anyone have heard if she did? Or did part of her ask for him? She did not know. Then his hand was between her legs ripping her dress wide and exposing her thighs. Her eyes widened as his knee forced her flesh apart.

  She screamed with what air was left within her lungs. He was still for a moment – did he pause? – then he raised an arm and his broad fist struck down against her face, cracking
bones with its force. She yelped from the pain and he punched her again. Harder. Across her cheek. And her world went black.

  She woke to a world of silence, where he was inside her, and lived an eternity as he pumped her until there was nothing left. She stayed true to that world when he rose and ran, leaving her to the gathering dusk. She made not a sound as blood trickled down her throat, and trembling fingertips across her face spoke the awful truth. She was mute when Ayesha found her beneath the star-filled heavens and took her home, one step at a time, where she bathed her and washed the blood from her clothes.

  ‘We will find justice for you against this criminal,’ she said, as she placed her gently on the bed. ‘My cousin will bring him to us and the elders will decide his fate. Revenge will soothe your pain.’

  Her hands began to stroke Malika’s forehead, but with the last of her strength Malika pushed her away.

  ‘Revenge will not return my honour, and it will not bring back my face,’ she whispered. They were the only words she would utter for the next month.

  The next day, her groin bleeding, her face throbbing as if to burst, she lay in bed and stared at the wall. When Ayesha stepped out, she climbed from the bed and limped across to the mirror. She gasped. Her face belonged to another. Her nose was flattened and swollen blue, impossibly twisted. One eye was closed from the swelling on her cheekbone. She gasped again in pain as a fingertip gently prodded. She gazed at herself for as long as she could bear, until pain or her shame dragged her back to the bed, where she stayed until Ayesha returned in the evening.