The Good Son

She holds the monstrous boy in her mind’s eye, he floats in the dark sparkles under her eyelids, and as she watches he changes; he grows tall, strong, beautiful: her son. She feels a pang of love. She calls out to him; he smiles at her and begins a careful kind of stepping, almost like a dance, and she sees that he is crushing under his feet the small helpless creatures from her dream, tiny birds or squirrels. She calls again, suddenly panicked; this is not right. She calls out, Theo, don’t! This is not how you were raised! And he smiles again, the flash of white teeth in a ta

Then she is out of the dreamlike state; she is back in the stable, and her back is covered with rats, their sharp teeth tearing at her open wounds.

She rises with a scream and the rats fall off her and vanish into the straw. She knows they will return, attracted by the smell of her blood. She wedges herself into a corner and sits trembling in terror, with her penlight in her hand. Its little beam wavers, grows yellow, fades to a tiny glow.

Sonia is still in this position when the trapdoor opens again, revealing a figure holding an oil lamp. She lets out a sob. It ca

The girls clucks when she sees that the naan has not been eaten, that it has been gnawed by the rats. She says, “I have brought you a new kameez. Here, let me help you put it on.”

“No, it is too painful to have anything next to my skin. And besides, they will only tear it again, and you are not rich enough to afford five new ones a day.”

“But they are saying you will not be beaten in this way anymore. The mullah says it is immodest for men to see your body through the rips in the cloth. So, God willing, they will beat you on your feet.”

“Thanks be to God,” says Sonia. “I will be a cripple, but not shamed.”

The girl does not detect any irony in this statement, and says, “Yes, thank God. I have some grease my mother gave me. We put it on burns. I will dress your back. I also have some cloths that my mother says will keep the cuts from turning bad.”

“Thank you. God will reward you for this mercy.”

Rashida rubs grease on Sonia’s back with a delicate hand and ties on the cloths. The pain seems to diminish a little. The girl helps her on with the new kameez and says, “Is it true that you cast the evil eye on Mahmoud Saiyed?”

“Is that his name?” says Sonia. Speaking to the girl seems to calm her. I’ve been hallucinating, she thinks, and shudders, but the details of the near-dream are starting to fade. She wills them out of her mind. “No, I cast no curse,” she says. “I’m not a witch. I asked him for his name so I could intercede for him on the Day of Judgment, since he is going to kill me unjustly in the name of God, which is a great sin.”

She sees the girl’s face twist in puzzlement. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I was taught to be merciful to my enemies and forgive them, as God forgives us.”

“Only a fool would forgive an enemy. That would just give him another chance to attack you.”

“And so? What if he attacks?”

“He might kill you.”

“And so? We are called to be mujahideen, we are called to struggle for the sake of God. In the lesser jihad we struggle against the enemies of Islam and for justice, and if we fall we are taken to Paradise. In the greater jihad we struggle against ourselves. We strive to become like God, and what is God if not compassionate and merciful? If we fall in that struggle, the Prophet, peace be upon him, has told us that we gain a higher rank in Paradise than those who fell by the sword.”

The girl looks down at her hands. She says, “I should not listen to you. You are a blasphemer. But look, I have had a dream.”

“Tell it,” says Sonia.

“I was on the bank of a river, a swift-flowing stream,” says the girl. “On the other side was… a boy. He was holding a gold ring and beckoning to me, but I couldn’t cross. Then I saw there were corpses in the water: oxen, horses, and some men, too. I was afraid, and I awakened.”

Sonia says, “The river is the future, which flows ever toward us and ca

“Batur,” says the girl immediately, and then gasps and holds her hand up to her mouth.

Sonia says, “Yes, Batur. He is from a good family in another village. He loves you and would marry you, but your father has promised you to someone else, an older man.” It is only a guess, but Sonia knows such sorrows are the common lot of Pashtun village girls.

Rashida’s eyes grow wide, glistening, reflecting the small yellow flame of the lamp. “How did you know that?”

“I know many things,” says Sonia. “And this older man is…”

“Khaliq Sumro. He has one eye and he stinks like a goat. He is of the mujahideen and advises Idris Ghulam. He has one wife in Peshawar but he wants one here.”

“Never fear that you will marry him. His death is foretold and will come soon. Your father may have a dream. Tell your mother what I have told you, and she will use the ways of women to make him come and see me and I will interpret that dream as well.”

The girl nods and assures Sonia she will do this and pushes forward a closed basket. She says there is food in it, and she will leave the oil lamp there, to stave off the rats. Then she darts up the ladder and closes the trapdoor. Sonia hears the bolt shoot home.

What a precious thing a little light is! Sonia thinks, and a little kindness as well. She cradles the small lamp in her hands. By its glow she can make out the shapes of the rats moving and from time to time the glow of their tiny fierce eyes. She wonders if the oil will last until dawn. Probably not. Perhaps that is part of the torment. Hope and some slight relief from the worst are the best weapons of any tormentor; the torturer smiles and offers a cigarette.

This adds incalculably to the most dreadful element in her situation, the anticipation of pain to come; anyone with an interior life knows that psychic pain is what breaks you. Sonia knows she is breaking. She is brave enough when free, with room to maneuver. She has confidence in her own cleverness, but now it is entirely gone. Her plan was a stupid one, and now here she is. She has always been a little claustrophobic, she has always sought the open skies, avoided tight spaces both physical and social; her life has been based on this preference, and now she is in this tiny grave packed with rats.

She sobs, letting the misery flow without constraint. She ca