And the Mountains Echoed Read Free

and kept vigil with them. People brought over what offerings they could—tea, candy, bread, almonds—and they brought as well their condolences and sympathies. Baba Ayub could hardly bring himself to say so much as a word of thanks. He sat in a corner, weeping, streams of tears pouring from both eyes as though he meant to end the village’s streak of droughts with them. You wouldn’t wish his torment and suffering on the vilest of men.
    Several years passed. The droughts continued, and Maidan Sabz fell into even worse poverty. Several babies died of thirst in their cribs. The wells ran even lower and the river dried, unlike Baba Ayub’s anguish, a river that swelled and swelled with each passing day. He was of no use to his family any longer. He didn’t work, didn’t pray, hardly ate. His wife and children pleaded with him, but it was no good. His remaining sons had to take over his work, for every day Baba Ayub did nothing but sit at the edge of his field, a lone, wretched figure gazing toward the mountains. He stopped speaking to the villagers, for he believed they muttered things behind his back. They said he was a coward for willingly giving away his son. That he was an unfit father. A real father would have fought the
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. He would have died defending his family.
    He mentioned this to his wife one night.
    â€œThey say no such things,” his wife replied. “No one thinks you are a coward.”
    â€œI can hear them,” he said.
    â€œIt is your own voice you are hearing, husband,” she said. She, however, did not tell him that the villagers
did
whisper behind his back. And what they whispered was that he’d perhaps gone mad.
    And then one day, he gave them proof. He rose at dawn. Without waking his wife and children, he stowed a few scraps of bread into a burlap sack, put on his shoes, tied his scythe around his waist, and set off.
    He walked for many, many days. He walked until the sun was a faint red glow in the distance. Nights, he slept in caves as the wind whistled outside. Or else he slept beside rivers and beneath trees and among the cover of boulders. He ate his bread, and then he ate what he could find—wild berries, mushrooms, fish that he caught with his bare hands from streams—and some days he didn’t eat at all. But still he walked. When passersby asked where he was going, he told them, and some laughed, some hurried past for fear he was a madman, and some prayed for him, as they too had lost a child to the
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. Baba Ayub kept his head down and walked. When his shoes fell apart, he fastened them to his feet with strings, and when the strings tore he pushed forward on bare feet. In this way, he traveled across deserts and valleys and mountains.
    At last he reached the mountain atop which sat the
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’s fort. So eager he was to fulfill his quest that he didn’t rest and immediately began his climb, his clothes shredded, his feet bloodied, his hair caked with dust, but his resolve unshaken. The jagged rocks ripped his soles. Hawks pecked at his cheeks when he climbed past their nest. Violent gusts of wind nearly tore him from the side of the mountain. And still he climbed, from one rock to the next, until at last he stood before the massive gates of the
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’s fort.
    Who dares? the
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’s voice boomed when Baba Ayub threw a stone at the gates.
    Baba Ayub stated his name. “I come from the village of Maidan Sabz,” he said.
    Do you have a wish to die? Surely you must, disturbing me in my home! What is your business?
    â€œI have come here to kill you.”
    There came a pause from the other side of the gates. And then the gates creaked open, and there stood the
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, looming over Baba Ayub in all of its nightmarish glory.
    Have you? it said in a voice thick as thunder.
    â€œIndeed,” Baba Ayub said. “One way or another, one of us dies today.”
    It appeared for a moment that the
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would swipe Baba Ayub