Free Lie Down With Lions by Ken Follett

raised his stick.
    This was going too far. She pointed at Mousa, who stood silent by her side, dazed by pain and weak from loss of blood. “Look!” she yelled at Abdullah. “Can’t you see—”
    But he was blinded by rage. Before she could finish what she was trying to say he brought down his stick on her head with a whack. Jane cried out with pain and anger: she was surprised at how much it hurt and how furious she was that he should do this.
    He still had not noticed Mousa’s wound. The mullah’s staring eyes were focused on Jane’s chest, and she realized in a flash that for him to see in broad daylight the naked breasts of a pregnant white Western woman was a sight so overloaded with different kinds of sexual anxiety that he was bound to blow his top. He was not planning to chastise her with a blow or two, as he might chastise his wife for disobedience. There was murder in his heart.
    Suddenly Jane was very frightened—for herself, for Mousa and for her unborn child. She stumbled backward, out of range, but he stepped toward her and raised his stick again. Suddenly inspired, she leaped at him and poked her fingers into his eyes.
    He roared like a wounded bull. He was not hurt so much as indignant that a woman he was beating should have the temerity to fight back. While he was blinded, Jane grabbed his beard with both hands and tugged. He stumbled forward, tripped and fell. He rolled a couple of yards downhill and came to rest in a dwarf willow bush.
    Jane thought: Oh, God, what have I done?
    Looking at the pompous, malevolent priest in his humiliation, Jane knew he would never forget what she had done. He might complain to the “whitebeards”—the village elders. He might go to Masud and demand that the foreign doctors be sent home. He might even try to inflame the menfolk of Banda into stoning Jane. But almost as soon as she had this thought, it struck her that, in order to make any kind of complaint, he would have to tell his story in all its ignominious details, and the villagers would ridicule him forever afterward—the Afghans were nothing if not cruel. So perhaps she would get away with it.
    She turned around. She had something more important to worry about. Mousa was standing where she had set him down, silent and expressionless, too shocked to understand what had been going on. Jane took a deep breath, picked him up and walked on.
    She reached the crest of the hill after a few paces, and she was able to walk faster as the ground leveled out. She crossed the stony plateau. She was tired and her back hurt but she was almost there: the caves were just below the brow of the mountain. She reached the far side of the ridge and heard children’s voices as she began to descend. A moment later she saw a group of six-year-olds playing Heaven-and-Hell, a game which involved holding your toes while two other children carried you to Heaven—if you succeeded in keeping hold of your toes—or Hell, usually a rubbish dump or a latrine, if you let go. She realized that Mousa would never play that game again, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of tragedy. The children noticed her then, and as she passed them they stopped playing and stared. One of them whispered: “Mousa.” Another repeated the name; then the spell was broken and they all ran ahead of Jane, shouting the news.
    The daytime hideout of the villagers of Banda looked like the desert encampment of a tribe of nomads: the dusty ground, the blazing midday sun, the remains of cooking fires, the hooded women, the dirty children. Jane crossed the small square of level ground in front of the caves. The women were already converging on the largest cave, which Jane and Jean-Pierre had made their clinic. Jean-Pierre heard the commotion and came out. Gratefully, Jane handed Mousa to him, saying in French: “It was a mine. He’s lost his hand. Give me your shirt.”
    Jean-Pierre took Mousa inside and laid him down on the rug which served as an examination