Short Stories Read Free

The long, drawn-out chant of the muezzin pulled Satar awake. He  yawned and stretched on the ground in the courtyard of a mud house a Russian  bomb had shattered. Ten or twelve other mujahideen lay there with him. One by  one, they got to their feet and am-bled over to a basin of water, where they  washed their hands and faces, their feet and their privates. Satar gasped as he splashed his cheeks with the water. It was bitterly cold. A  pink glow in the east said sunrise was coming soon. God is great! the muezzin repeated. He stood on the roof of another ruined  house and called out to the faithful: I bear witness, there is no God but God! I bear witness, Muhammad is the prophet of God! Come quick to prayer! Come quick to success! Prayer is better than sleep! God is great! There is no God but the one true God! The fighters spread blankets on the dirt of the courtyard. This was no mosque  with a proper qibla, but they knew in which direction Mecca lay- They bent,  shoulder to shoulder, and went through morning prayers together. After praying, Satar ate unleavened bread and drank tea thick with sugar and  fragrant with mint. He had never been a fat man; he'd grown thinner since  joining the mujahideen. The godless infidels and their puppets held the richest  parts of the countryside. But villagers were generous in sharing what they  had and some of what was grown and made in occupied parts of the country reached  the fighters in the holy war through one irregular channel or another. A couple of boys of about six strutted by, both of them carrying crude wooden  toy Kalashnikovs. One dived behind some rubble. The other stalked him as  carefully as if their assault rifles were real. When the time came for them to  take up such weapons, they would be ready. Another boy, perhaps thirteen, had a  real Kalashnikov on his back. He'd been playing with toy firearms when the  Russians invaded Afghanistan. Now he was old enough to fight for God on his own.  Boys like that were useful, especially as scouts the Shuravi weren't always so  wary of them as they were with grown men. Something glinted in the early-morning sun: a boy of perhaps eight carried what  looked like a plastic pen even more proudly than the other children bore their  Kalashnikovs, pretend and real. Assault rifles were commonplace, pens something  out of the ordinary, something special. Hey, sonny, Satar called through lips all at once numb with fear. The boy  looked at him. He nodded encouragingly. Yes, you that's right. Put your pen on  the ground and walk away from it. What? Plainly, the youngster thought he was crazy. Why should I? If he'd had  a rifle, Satar would have had to look to his life. I'll tell you why: because I think it's a Russian mine. If you fiddle with it,  it will blow off your hand. The boy very visibly thought that over. Satar could read his mind. Is this  mujahid trying to steal my wonderful toy? Maybe the worry on Satar's face got  through to him, because he did set the pen in the dirt. But when he walked away,  he kept looking back over his shoulder at it. With a sigh of relief, Satar murmured, Truly there is no God but God. Truly, someone behind him agreed. He turned. There stood Sayid Jaglan. The  commander went on, That is a mine I am sure of it. Pens are bad. I was afraid  he would take off the cap and detonate it. Pens are bad, but the ones that look  like butterflies are worse. Any child, no matter how small, will play with  those. And then be blown to pieces, Satar said bitterly. Oh, no, not to pieces. Sayid Jaglan shook his head. He was about forty, not  very tall, his pointed beard just beginning to show frost. He had a scar on his  forehead that stopped a centimeter or so above his right eye. They're made to  maim, not to kill. The Russians calculate we have to work harder to care for the  wounded than to bury the dead. Satar pondered that. A calculation straight from the heart of Shai-tan, he  said