Free Ollie's Cloud by Gary Lindberg Page A

its way to the compound’s rear entrance. It takes all of them to lift the heavy crossbar that secures the unused door. With a heave, the door opens, creaking loudly.
    Outside the gate is nothing but blackness.
    “Where are they?” Anisa says. She is suddenly afraid that something has gone wrong. “They were supposed to be here.”
    “It takes a little while to get here from the caravanserai,” the third wife explains. “If Allah wishes you to succeed, he will guide them to your door.”
    For a moment they are quiet, listening. And then they hear the faint clop-clop of mules hooves. Anisa’ heart pounds faster as the sound grows louder. She prays it is not the night patrol.
    An orange glow appears around the corner of the compound’s wall. Then another. Five, six, seven lanterns. More.
    It is the caravan. Anisa tearfully embraces the other wives before they silently slip back into the compound, closing and bracing the door behind them.
    Hidden beneath his chador, Ali feels both exhilarated by the adventure and humiliated by his costume. For the first time he is experiencing Persian life as a girl.
    “Ali,” his mother says, “do not say a word to anyone. Remember, you are disguised. Don’t give it away.”
    The caravan stops at the compound’s rear gate. The charvadar, Nasrullah, gestures to the tall woman seated on a mule behind him. The woman gets off her mule and walks to Anisa and Ali, approaching them closely.
    “There are two mules beside mine, one for each of you,” she whispers to Anisa.
    Ali recognizes the tall woman’s masculine voice.
    “Gordon?” Ali says.
    Anisa grabs Ali’s arm and squeezes hard, reminding him not to speak.
    The tall woman turns to Ali and nods “yes,” she is Gordon.
    Ali suddenly feels better about wearing the chador. Gordon has to wear one, too.
    Gordon gestures for Nasrullah to get the women’s bags packed on the spare mules. It is not unusual for a woman to remain silent when dealing with men, particularly men she does not know.
    Nasrullah and four others begin to tie the bags onto mules as Anisa and Ali climb onto their animals. At last the job is done. The caravan starts up, making its way for the main gate of Bushruyih. The spray of lantern light and gentle percussion of hooves in the quiet night makes this an eerie but tranquil escape—except for the rapid beating of three hearts.
    Within ten minutes the caravan approaches the main gate, which is closed. The gatekeeper blinks off the fog of sleep and stares at the caravan. It’s unusual for a caravan to leave the city at this hour of the evening, but not unheard of.
    “Where are you going?” he asks. Not an interrogation, just a question.
    “To Mashhad. We prefer traveling in the cool of the evening.”
    “Well, you have a moon tonight.”
    The gatekeeper and four guards unbolt and open the large city gate, allowing the caravan to pass through into the desert.
    Was it just this morning that Jalal and I were at the mulberry trees staring at the clouds? Ali wonders. What will my friend do when he finds me gone? The finality of his decision suddenly becomes more vivid, more real. With each plodding step of his mule, Ali feels his heart being torn from his body. He begins to weep. At first silently, glad that the chador conceals his tears, then loudly and uncontrollably.
    Anisa steers her mule closer to his, reaches out and takes his hand. To the men in the caravan, this weeping is just a young girl’s melancholy. The weaker sex.
    Gordon is lost in thought. How he wishes they could gallop away on Arabian stallions at high speed, putting greater distance between themselves and the search party that the kelauntar surely will launch in the morning. But it is better this way. When the searchers inquire about an Englishman, no one will have seen him. A woman and a boy? No.
    As planned, a mile from the Bushruyih gate, where the pale road splits north to Mashhad and south to Tabbas, the caravan turns south. The