Free Earth and Ashes by Atiq Rahimi Page B

bridge, to the dried-up river that has become a bed of black stones and scrub. You look above the riverbed to the rocky mountains in the distance. They merge with Murad’s face.
    “Why have you come, Father? Is everything all right?” he asks.
    For more than a week now, this face with this question has haunted your days and your nights.
    Why have you come? The question gnaws at your bones. Can’t that brain in your head find an answer? If only there were no such question. No such word as “why.” You’ve come to see how your son’s doing. That’s all. After all, you’re a father, you think about your son from time to time. Is it a sin? No. You know why you’ve really come.
    You look for your box of naswar, tip a little into the palm of your hand, and put it under your tongue. If only things were simple, full of pleasure—like naswar, like sleep … Your gaze rises above the summits of the mountains to the sky … But Murad’s face still mingles with the mountains. The rocks are slowly becoming hot; they’re turning red. It is as if they have become coal and the mountains are one great furnace. The coal catches fire, erupting from the mountain and flowing down the dry riverbed toward you. You are on one side of the river, Murad is on the other. Murad keeps asking, “Why have you come? Why have you come alone with Yassin? Why have you given Yassin silent stones?”
    Then Murad starts to cross over to you.
    “Murad,” you shout, “stay where you are, child! It’s a river of fire. You’ll get burned! Don’t come!”
    You ask yourself who could believe such a thing: a river of flowing fire? Have you become a seer of visions? Look, Murad’s wading through the river without getting burned. No, he must be getting burned, but he’s not reacting. Murad is strong. He doesn’t break down. Look at him. His body is covered in sweat.
    “Murad,” you shout again, “Stop! The river’s on fire!”
    But Murad continues to move toward you, asking, “Why have you come? Why have you come?”
    From somewhere, you’re not sure where, the voice of Murad’s mother rises.
    “Dastaguir, tell him to stay there.
You
cross the river. Take my apple-blossom patterned scarf with you and go and wipe away his sweat. Take my scarf for Murad …”
    Your eyes open. You feel your skin covered in cold sweat. You’re not able to sleep in peace. It’s been a week now since you’ve had a restful sleep. As soon as you close your eyes, it’s Murad and his mother, orYassin and his mother, or fire and ash, or shouts and wails … and you wake up again. Your eyes burn. They burn with sleeplessness. Your eyes don’t see anymore. They’re exhausted. Out of exhaustion and sleeplessness you keep falling into a half-sleep—a half-sleep filled with visions. It’s as if you live only in these images and dreams. Images and dreams of what you’ve witnessed and wish you hadn’t … maybe also what you yet must see, wishing you didn’t have to.
    If only you slept like a child, like Yassin. Yassin?
    No, like any other child but Yassin, who whimpers and moans in his sleep. Maybe Yassin’s sleep has become like yours, full of images, dirt, fire, screams, and tears … No, not like Yassin’s. Like any other child’s. Like a baby’s. A sleep without images, memories—without dreams.
    If only it were possible to begin life again from the beginning, like a newborn baby. You’d like to live again, if only for a day, an hour, a minute, a second.
    You think for a moment about the time Murad left the village, when he walked out through the door. You too should have left the village with your wife and children and your grandchildren and gone to another village. You should’ve gone to Pul-i-Khumri. Never mindif you’d had no land, no crops, no work. May the land rot in Hell! You would have followed Murad. You would have worked in the mines, shoulder to shoulder with him. Then today, no one would be asking you why you’ve come.
    If only …
    Over