Shadows on the Frontier

by Mir Aziz

Marri Country

Scorpions scurry through shifting sands, forging nests in the sun-bleached skeletons of creatures long dead. Jackals and hyenas patrol from the hills’ ragged rocks, watching camels, cattle, and men slowly succumbing to the hounding heat and lack of water. The beasts stand ready to pounce and maul the stragglers struggling to keep up with the herd. Brown and barren brush are scattered throughout the desert terrain, their thorns tearing the skin of those foolish enough to seek refuge amongst them.

Marri country is carved out of high mountains, with rolling dunes, having clear maps of constellations in the dark, and picturesque deserts in the light. The sun itself is the greatest of tormentors; its relentless rays scald those unfortunate enough to be caught in the path of its awesome power. Buzzards, vultures, and dogs stalk the victims of the solar overlord, nipping and gnawing at the unfortunate souls whilst their breath remains. The day boils men alive, then the night freezes them where they lay.

The sun descends and the moon takes its place, giving no respite. The eyelids weld together, of man and beast alike, icicles binding eyelashes to flesh.

Tough countries breed tough men, and this place is no exception. The mountains to the north are home to the Kakar and Safi Pashtuns, accomplished tribesmen whose domains span from the edges of Kandahar to the hills of Quetta. To the east are the Kacchi tribes, home to the twin masters of the horse, the Dombki and Jatoi, whose hunting grounds encompass the whole of Sindh. To the south is nothing but sand—the same sand that destroyed the armies of Alexander the Great. In the hills towards the northeast live the Bugti, resilient hill men trained from birth in the art of slaving and sniping. The Bugti are the principal enemies of the natives of this country—the Marri. The Marris, like the others, are tough, ruthless men with an innate knowledge and expertise in the art of war. Yet they differ in one crucial sense. The Khans and tribes of the Indo-Afghan frontier were crushed, humbled, and resettled by the British war machine in Calcutta. Even the Emir of Kabul, Dost Mohammad, was deposed, Afghanistan pacified and humbled—but not the Marri. Their refusal to bend the knee became their greatest crime. John Keane led an army to punish them for this misdeed.

The Army Departs for Kahan

“Hard men, the Marri,” the local guide said, pushing aside dead brush before descending the jagged rocks.

A thin column of sepoys, no more than fifteen, followed him, fumbling around stones and thicket, trying and failing to match the pace of the guide. Their bright red uniforms roasted them alive during the day, the dyed wool indistinguishable from their rashes and burnt skin. Their boots began falling apart, their khakis soiled with blood, faeces, and urine. They were initially part of a larger detachment but split up to cross the narrow mountain passes and hostile deserts. They brought with them three buffalo, a mule, two camels, and two horses. The buffalo were the first to go, falling as soon as the party entered Marri country. The horses did not do so well either, but the mule and camels were fine.

A White man turned back to face his war party; their obsidian eyes stared back. Swarthy, red-skinned Rohilla Pathans, stout and strong. They all wore piercings and facial hair. Some had long moustaches with no beards, some with long beards and no moustaches, others with both. Beige turbans wrapped tightly around the heads of long hair; pristine cloths sat above the hooked noses. The White man observed the sorry state of his men and their animals with little interest. His own trousers wore the grime of the wilderness, his hands and face now pink under the relentless sun rays.

“We have cracked alleged hard men before,” the White man said. He then yawned, half covering his maw with the back of his large, pink hand.

“Not the Marri,” the guide responded.

“We have conquered Pathans before,” was the reply, as uninterested as before, this time staring off towards the never-ending rolling hills.

“Not Pathans, sir. We are Baluch,” the guide said, his voice resolute and firm.

The White man stared at the Baluch, a quick flash of anger dissipating and giving way to a wide grin.

The Baluch was wiry and more sinewy than the Indians. He wore a long white tunic in the fashion of the frontiersmen, with loose-fitting trousers that seemed exceptionally baggy, even by local standards. Wrapped over his shoulders was a black woollen shawl with various floral patterns sewn into it. The White man could not help but be fixated on the Baluch’s face. Black and rough, the man had a large brow with one giant eyebrow covering it. His nose was large and aquiline and gave way to a long, bushy moustache that covered thin, parched lips. His cheekbones were high, sitting just above a peculiarly well-kept beard about a fist in length. The man’s eyes were small and beady, yet prominent in their position, two parallel stars in a pitch-black night. His wild hair descended just past his shoulders, the top covered by a white turban, tied loosely with its end covering his neck. Slung over his shoulder was an old jezail, an ornate musket with calligraphy and flowers carved into its butt. A tightly wound sash along his waist carried an ancient flintlock pistol, a curved knife sheathed in a ruby case detailed in actual gold, and a large sword wrapped in cowhide. A grey donkey strolled at the Baluch’s side, a tired and decrepit looking creature with joints protruding through tightly stretched skin.

“Not Pathans? Then what are they?” asked the White man.

“We are Baluch, sir.”

The guide stood and observed the White man before him. The Bugti had come across white men before, but he had always objected to their designation as such. After all, they were mostly pink. But they were certainly sights to behold. The white men were tall and broad. The most miserable of them had great, sturdy statures; those only seen in the wealthiest of chiefs. The Baluch found them to be peculiar in appearance, for they never kept beards and rarely wore moustaches—attributes the Baluch understood to be the pride of a man. And they wore red, tight clothes that looked uncomfortable. The Baluch was certain the thick red coat the White man wore would not help him beat the sun, but they were imposing.

The white men were not of this land. They came from India, and they were not natives but came from far across the sea. The Baluch assumed they were excellent fighters, having conquered all of India. They recently conquered Kabul and were going to destroy the Marri. The Baluch observed the White man’s long face—strong with stubble dotting his stone jaw. A neat crop of brown hair set about his ear lobes, a large scar running down his left cheek. His blue eyes stared without prominent eyelashes; a small nose turned upwards at its end. Even by white men's standards, the man was huge, standing a head taller than the Baluch. The size of his hands was comparable to bear paws. If anyone was going to defeat the Marri, he thought, it would probably be this man. He was less convinced of the hobble of Rohillas accompanying him. Some referred to them as ‘Pathans’, but they were unlike any Pashtuns he had seen before.

“We? These are your people?”

“No,” the Baluch responded. “I am Bugti. You want to kill Marri. Bugti and Marri—we are Baluch. But we hate them. Only good Marri is a dead Marri.”

The White man smirked, “It appears the company hates them, too. We will be glad to help you be rid of them.”

The Bugti grunted. The White man detected disbelief, and so he began, “Bugti, do you see these men behind me?”

The Bugti grunted once again.

“Their forefathers were courageous Yusufzais who conquered India. Cruel and crude men, really. One could not fault them as warriors, but the mind struggles to think of any other achievements they attained. It was through the gift of British ethics and guiding principles that we have elevated these men. See how the Rohilla Pathans have become civilised, that they have careers in soldiering rather than raiding; that they now work the land and serve the state. We have saved these men—and we will save the Baluch, Marri and Bugti alike, too.”

“Alright.”

“Do you work any land, Bugti?”

“I am not a slave to grains.”

“Do you work any land?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“Herd goats—mostly. Place to place.”

“Do you not envy the people of Sindh? How they can rely so regularly on harvest and plan accordingly? How they have land. Do you or your people not want that?”

“No.”

The White man scoffed, “You do not know what you do not know. And in any case, you wanting one thing or another hardly matters.”

The Bugti’s face remained unchanged, and he continued through the rocks and paths, leading the company further into Marri country. The sun began to set; the sky became a flurry of purple and orange as the moon and stars emerged from their hides. The Bugti tightened his shawl around his face as the chill clawed at his head and hands. He halted, looking towards the White man, who nodded in turn.

“Here,” the Bugti shouted.

The Rohillas halted the pack animals, unrolled and pitched the tents, set up a large fire in the centre of the makeshift camp, and prepared gruel, jerky, and tea. The Rohillas broke up into three different groups, chatting amongst themselves. They told occasional jokes, tearing at their rations with their incisors, sipping hot tea with cracked lips, joy etched in their faces. They kicked off their hard boots and reclined. Their turbans were placed on seats beside them, high off the floor. The men wrapped light cotton shawls around their shoulders, the cloth doing little against the chill.

The White man sat away from the soldiers, keeping his boots on. He stared at them, lighting his tobacco pipe. He took a long puff on it.

The Bugti came and sat next to him. The White man faced him, shifting away. The Bugti followed, carefully removing his hide sandals. He unwrapped his turban, folding it eight times and resting it over his shawl-shrouded shoulder, a small brown cap resting on the back of his head. He took tobacco and chewed, chomping loudly.

“Would you rather not sit with the Pathans?”

“No,” the Bugti responded, not meeting the White man’s face, covering his own with his shawl.

The White man chuckled, rocked his head back and took another puff on his pipe. “How far are we from Kahan? I gather the distance is not too much more, with large climbs in latitude?”

“Yes. Kahan in five days. Maybe six. How hardy are your Pathans?” The Bugti cleared his throat and spat into the fire.

“Hard enough for the task ahead of us, without a doubt.”

“How hardy are you?”

The White man choked a little on his pipe and chuckled a little more. “Hard enough for the task ahead of us,” he replied, smiling. “And tell me, Bugti, how hardy are you?”

The Bugti shrugged and spat again.

The sky became black, and the light of the flame danced in the shadows of the White man, accentuating and exaggerating his brow and nose. The White man’s grin seemed even larger, his cheekbones sharply angled, complete blackness below merging with the void, and a tainted orange glow above his protruding blue eyes.

The Bugti shuddered, and the White man’s upturned mouth seemed to expand into infinity, his eyes projecting through eternity.

“You know this country well, I gather.”

“Well enough to guide you.”

“Yes, well. I was trying to make conversation with you. It’s awfully chilly these nights.”

“It is.”

“You know, where I come from, it can get very cold too.”

“Calcutta?”

The White man laughed at the Bugti and put his arm around his shoulders. He hooked his forearm so that he was almost choking him, “No, not Calcutta. England. Have you heard of England?”

“It is where the white men come from.”

“It is indeed. And we came from there and conquered India and we elevated that country in ways the natives could not have ever imagined. And now we are here and will do the same.”

“I heard you are here to kill Marris so that you can kill Afghans so that you can kill Russians.”

The White man tightened his grip and laughed again, “Something like that, I suppose. But it’s not just to kill. To kill will be an unfortunate necessity, but ultimately, as I told you before, you people will be made better. Willingly or not.”

The White man released his grip, and the Bugti sat in silence.

“The winds are loud this night,” the White man said as he turned to look over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Why is that?”

“It is the wails of the wronged. Some nights it is louder than others.”

“The wronged are especially talkative tonight,” the White man said and chuckled.

The Bugti spat into the fire and said nothing.

The Raid

A horde of war horses neighed in rage and agony as they thundered across the cracked earth, kicking up storms of sand that marked their dreadful charge towards the unaware party. Atop them sat silent riders dressed in long robes, black turbans covering all but their eyes. They wore neck chains formed of human fingers and ears. Their belts were ropes decorated with decomposing heads.

The men rode bare upon their beasts, which were tattooed with three vertical dots between their eyes. Small cuts of hide served as saddles as the men’s knees became the stirrups and bridles. They carried diverse archaic weapons: ornate sabres, lances, and flintlocks.

“Raiders,” shouted one of the Rohillas. “Raiders!”

But it was too late. Already the sky erupted with the cracks of guns. The shrieks of war cries and chants pierced the waking ears of the camp.

One Rohilla with a long moustache and a bald head stood from the camp for a moment, folding down to his knees as a small hole appeared in the centre of his forehead. A crimson river flowed down his face, dripping into and being indistinguishable from his coat. The man’s khakis turned red as a pool of viscera surrounded the collapsed body.

The White man rushed to his feet, cocked a pistol, and fired towards the horde. He missed. A raider slashed at and missed him three times, and so grabbed the sword with his hands and brought the hilt smashing atop the White man’s skull. An ear-splitting crack was heard as he fell to the ground. Another raider thrust a lance down upon him, the spear splintering the forearm as the rider continued on.

More riders flooded the camp, cutting down the Rohillas where they stood. Swords and spears slashed and skewered; limbs and heads fell from their bodies with squelches, crunches, and thuds among a chaotic carnival of carnage. A gelatinous slosh of flesh, sinew, cartilage, marrow, and intestines flooded the ground as raiders commanded their blades as masterfully as an artist directs his brush.

And almost as soon as it started, it ended. The horsemen galloped off into the horizon, carrying with them animals, supplies, weapons, and an assortment of severed heads. Their presence seemed like a shooting star, gone in an instant, leaving a streaming tail of terror in their wake. Gone with the wind, the turbaned reapers took the souls of most of the party with them, leaving but a single mule.

The Bugti crept up from behind a large rock. He looked around, his eyes narrowing as he placed a small brown cap on the back of his head. He dusted off the sleeves and drapes of his tunic, stepped up, and cupped his black, bony fingers around his eyes. The Bugti sighed, cleared his throat, and spat. Thirteen headless corpses littered the ground, almost floating in a sea of blood. The man heaved as the iron smell of gore and faeces tore at his nostrils. Looking up, he saw the White man’s body twitch before he saw it rise, cradling its head in its huge paws. The Bugti ran over and threw the White man’s shoulder over his, then struggled to his feet. The White man rose with him, laboured breaths filling the crisp dawn air.

A crimson stream ran down the White man’s cheek, his eyes bloodshot red. He swished his tongue around his mouth, sure his teeth had been shattered. He spat on the ground as though searching for shards of molars and incisors, staring at the jelly of blood, phlegm, and maybe muscle tissue before him.

He lifted his eyes towards the camp, his men slain, headless, and lying in their own viscera. He raised his hands, staring at his dusty fingers before cupping them around his face. He sighed and looked down at the wiry native at his side and the intricacy of his hat. The yellow embroidery stitching and pattern stood out from its brown felt.

“You seem well,” the White man started.

“I am.”

“Well, I am glad that you are, at least.”

“Raiders.”

“What?”

“Raiders killed Indians.”

“Well, yes, I can very much see that. Thank you,” the White man retorted, sighing again. He crouched down, running his fingers through the red lake. He brought them back up to his face before wiping them against his jacket. “I meant to ask, who were they?”

“Raiders.”

“Yes,” the White man sighed again, more agitated. “And they are?”

“Desert men. Horsemen.”

“And how did they find us?” An accusatory tone marked the question.

The native shrugged and grunted.

“How did they find us?”

“Sight. Tracks. Smell, maybe.”

“You don’t seem concerned, Bugti.”

“I am alive.”

“And many are not.”

“I am.”

“And my Pathans are not.”

“Indians are dead. I am not. You are not.”

“I can see that. I can see that very clearly.”

The Bugti grunted.

A lone Pathan stood amongst the carnage, eyeing his dead comrades. More than dead. Destroyed. Their limbs twisted, their heads taken, their existence—their very presence—annihilated. He stared at contorted corpses, stoic and stern, assessing in a fashion alien to men who did not understand the path of a warrior. He turned his head to see a battered Britisher, blood coagulated across his muzzle. The tribesman next to him, turbanless and unscathed.

The Pathan dusted off the sleeves and breast of his red jacket, put his fingers into his mouth, and twirled his moustache. His hand fell from his shaven jaw down to his butt chin. He patted his thick head of hair, coughed, spat, and trudged through the organs and bodies of his fallen peers. As he reached the White man, he saluted.

“Sir,” he said, his voice deep and coarse. As he brought his hand back to his side, he turned to face the tribesman and stared, and the tribesman stared back.

The Pathan saw an unkempt, primitive frontiersman. One who seemed to have no appreciation or sophistication of understanding to probably anything, besides stealing from civilised people, and possibly herding goats. The man might be capable of terrible acts of spontaneous violence, but such savages would not, could not, comprehend the arts of the martial sciences, tactics or high politics. The scene before him was plenty of evidence of this. And this wiry savage was likely behind it. So he stared, and continued to long after the tribesman faced away, his pupils piercing the man’s skin.

A cool morning breeze glazed over them all, delivering the putrid smell of iron. The sun rose, prying away the faded, tainted dawn with its fingers. Buzzards circled overhead, while a vulture descended upon the dead Rohillas, picking at their flesh and organs. A pack of hyenas squabbled amongst themselves, hiding behind the rocks, watching the feast before them. Whining and barking, they hesitated to advance, peering at the surviving men.

A hulking beast emerged from the group. Its striped, tan body covered with a bristling mane that danced with the winds. The animal galloped down from the rocks, its eyes fixated on the men, snarling with cracked fangs, jeering as it advanced. It came to a corpse whose liver was being torn out by a vulture. The enormous bird with a grey, bald face stood its ground upon the body. A pulsating red tumor dangled from under its beak. It gawked at the hyena, lifting its great wings before its face twice. The hyena lunged forward, howling, and the vulture took flight in silence.

The four-legged animal took the corpse by the bicep and bit down. A thundering crunch. Then, the hyena walked backwards towards the rocks from which it emerged. Slowly. Its eyes fixated on the Pathan with a brown-skinned arm hanging from its mangled maw, now red and wet.

The vulture returned, perching on the same body to continue its dig at the liver. Then, more hyenas came, more vultures descended, all shovelling fresh meat from headless necks.

The men gawked at the horrid feast, their former colleagues now scavenger sustenance, eventually excrement. The White man broke the silence, wiping a sleeve across his cheek.

“How far is Kahan from here?”

“Less men. Less animals. Maybe three days and one half day.”

“And how far back to Sindh?”

“Long.”

“And how is the terrain till Kahan?”

“The same.”

“It appears to me that it would be best to continue to advance,” the Pathan spoke. “Keane should be there. We can rendezvous with the army, join their ranks, sir.”

“I figure that would be a good plan, though I hesitate in advancing further into hostile territories, just you and I. And the Bugti.”

“To head back would be longer in badlands, sir. That is, if the Bugti is truthful. If he is reliable.”

“This is true. This. Is. True. Onward to Kahan, Bugti.”

The Pathan led the mule by its ears, wading through the blood of his brothers as the four set off. The Bugti led, of course, and the White man fell towards the back with the Pathan and mule. He held his head in his hands, which he had wrapped with cloth to mask his wounds. The cloth grew soaked and red.

The White man said, in English, “If the tribesman looks even a smidge suspicious, blow his brains out.”

“So now?”

The White man chuckled. “When we arrive in Kahan. But before, if necessary. I’m sorry to see the state of your people back there, Pathan.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tents

The men and the mule stood atop the face of a cliff. A camel skin tarp was visible upon the ravine’s horizon, the silhouettes of camels around it. To ease the ache in their stomachs, the men descended the rocks.

Fire seemed to radiate from the ground through the men’s boots, sweltering their legs and feet, but the cold air bit at their bones. The wind sang silently, toying with the hairs on the back of their necks. The land was cracked and barren apart from a small dry bush that the mule, who carried the White man, stopped to chew. Suddenly, its mount rose, throwing him off, grunting and moaning in pain. It bashed its head into the sides of the ravine, whimpering and whining. The beast dragged its head in circles, heaving and huffing as it staggered.

“Snake bite,” the Bugti said, watching shiny scales slither into the cracks of the earth. Its colours were irregular.

The Pathan glared at him, a freshly lit pipe hanging from his mouth. He stretched to help the White man to his feet.

The mule rolled onto its side, tight leather expanding over cracked ribs. Its head swelled, the nose a cancerous balloon.

“Poor thing,” the White man remarked, rubbing his now bruised bottom.

The Pathan brushed off his sleeves, puffed upon his tobacco, and restocked it in his mouth. He then loaded a pistol, aimed it at the beast, and pulled back the hammer.

“Stop,” the Bugti said, right before the Pathan could pull the trigger. He gestured to the tents.

The Pathan pointed to ammunition on his belt. “Don’t be worried for them. I have plenty more.”

“They have more, maybe.”

The Pathan ignored him and again raised his pistol until the White man spoke up. “Perhaps save it.”

“Alright.” The pistol went back into his belt, and instead, the Pathan pulled out his bayonet and grabbed the mule by the ear.

The mule resisted. As it saw the blade, it tried to move, whining and grovelling, but it was too weak and too late. As its throat was sawed apart, the wretched creature contested, meekly bleating, trying to retreat. As he cut the jugular, it became a sprinkler of red mist on the Pathan’s face. He stood unmoved and unbothered, continuing to saw until the swollen head was in his hands. Holding it by its ears, the Pathan looked into the empty eyes and saw himself. He then threw it to the side, wiped his face on his sleeves and his hands on his khakis. He spat, then took his pipe with two fingers and exhaled. Smoke rose from his lips as he stashed his blade back in his belt. Another spit before he faced the Bugti, grinning.

The Bugti shuddered. “You enjoyed that?”

“It is not a question of enjoyment,” the Pathan responded, cracking his knuckles. He took a long puff on his pipe. “In fact, there is no question to it at all. It is expression. I wanted to kill it and I saw a reason, so I did it.”

The White man added, “More than that, it was the right thing to do. The poor creature was snake bitten. It needed to be disposed of.”

“Necessary,” the Bugti replied. “Not more than that.”

“What a simple thing you are, Bugti,” the Pathan said, baring his teeth, now red with mule’s blood.

The Bugti grunted as the three of them moved onward.

The dark, unembellished tents sat upon the intricately woven red carpets, many decorated with plants formed from yellow and brown strings. A metal teapot sat in the centre, having mismatched earthen cups surrounding it. There was a straw plate filled with chunks of overcooked meat.

“Salaam,” said the Bugti, announcing his presence to the camp.

“Walaikum salaam,” a shrill voice responded. A small, hunched man wearing a loosely wrapped turban emerged from the tent. His eyebrows covered his eyes, and his beard reached his knees.

“We are tired and hungry, good sir. Could you spare us a little of your hospitality?” the Bugti asked.

“There is nothing more noble than caring for guests. Please, be comfortable,” the elder responded.

The other two stared intensely, unable to speak or understand Baluchi.

“Enter,” the Bugti said, pointing to the carpets.

Before they could, two veiled figures exited the space and hid themselves in a smaller adjoining tent.

Tattoos

The three men sat down, and the elder host laid out a selection of nuts and dry fruit. He took clay cups, wiped them with his shirt, and poured steaming green tea. The nuts and tea satisfied them. The sun was setting, and the night winds made themselves known. The men were, for the first time in a while, comfortable.

“How is the condition of India these days?” the elder asked in Hindustani.

“Things could not be better,” the White man responded, a genuine smile on his face.

The elder nodded. “I hear the trade caravans gain far more wealth nowadays than they used to.”

“Of course.”

“But I have also heard of great wars. Of great hunger. Yes, I have heard some very miserable conditions.”

“Yes, well, ruling a nation is a hard thing. So many little cogs and things could be better if the natives allowed it. Alas, their customs often interfere in efficient and good governance.”

“And what customs of the Indians would want them to prefer starvation to nourishment?”

“The same customs that allow the conditions of the land to be as wretched as they were before our presence.”

The elder chuckled, and the White man smiled back.

“To rule is harder than to conquer,” the elder insisted. “And so, it befits a wise conqueror to know the worth of what he conquers. You are in an odd spot, I suppose. A company who rules the richest and most populous of countries, the authorities in your own country speak with merchants about governance and geopolitics.”

“And for it, we have made much wealth in India, stopped much chaos, and tamed anarchy. We have crushed marauders, destroyed vagabonds and gifted sciences upon the people of India. God willing, we will continue to do so,” the White man responded in a gentle tone, a smile still plastered across his face.

The elder nodded again, and faced the Pathan, who was working his hand around his pipe and wrapping his shawl around his shoulder. “So, things are better?”

The Pathan did not look up, and instead drew a long puff on his pipe. He then said simply, “God save the King.”

The White man did not know if he was joking.

“God has cursed those who take the title ‘king’, did you know?” the elder said.

“Well then, it is good we do not have a king, but a queen,” the White man responded.

“And a country run by women will never prosper.”

“So, were all the kingdoms of India run by women, then?”

The elder laughed once again. “You White men have a funny wit about you.”

The elder turned to the Bugti and spoke in Baluchi, “And where have you come from, my countryman?”

“Dera Bugti.”

“Bugti, yes, yes. Why do you ride with the Indians?”

“They will help us kill many Marris.”

The elder sighed and looked down into his cup. His cracked, black fingers wrapped around the edges of the clay. “You know, Bugti, this feud will be the end of both of you. You have your grievances, but do you not see what the White men are doing?”

“We are not stupid, sir. Of course we see.”

“Then why do you go along with it?”

The Bugti shrugged. “Why does it matter? We allegedly are ruled by the Khan in Kalat, and before him, the Emir in Kabul. So, what if we then pay lip service to the King of Calcutta? Or Queen? The Marri have hurt me, and I will hurt them. You know what they have done to us.”

As the men conversed, the Pathan rose and left the tent.

The Bugti continued, “I know you see it as wrong, sir. And it might be. But this violence, this war, is necessary for our survival. The Marri must be defanged.”

The elder sighed, “And that is exactly what they will say about you when they take the Russians as friends.”

“I know. But tell me, what do we do? The White man is here, and he is here to stay. We may well take what help we can. What else can we do?”

“Take the White men as friends, and then overlords, I suppose.” He switched to Hindustani. “You should learn Baluchi, Britisher. It will make you beloved over here,” he said, smiling towards the White man.

The Pathan burst back into the tent, his pipe in his mouth and pistol raised. He fired at the elder, piercing his chest, turning his white robes red. The old man gasped, staggering back. The Pathan raised his pistol again and shot the elder between the eyes, the shriek of the bullet shattering the night's silence. Confused screams came from the neighbouring tent.

“What have you done, Pathan?” asked the White man, his eyes wide, his mouth now agape at the scene before him.

“I was outside smoking and I inspected their livestock. I noticed their animals had tattoos of three vertical dots on their heads. These are the same people who attacked us,” the Pathan said before he spat.

“How? It’s an old man!” The Bugti shouted.

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Bugti. They were of the same tribe, you know that. They have the same tattoos to mark their animals.”

“Yes. But this man did not attack us.”

The Pathan shrugged. “The tribes understand that when they attack us, any of theirs are fair game. Is that not frontier policy, sir?” he asked, turning to the White man.

“Yes…”

“In fact, is that not what makes a tribe a tribe? Collective responsibility for the acts of criminals?”

The White man once again agreed.

“And so there will be a need to reprimand.”

“No.”

“And there are two more to deal with. It’s dark out. Best to camp here after. Isn’t that right, sir?”

The Bugti and White man looked at each other solemnly, and after a pause, the White man said, “Yes.”

“This is wrong,” the Bugti said.

“This is law,” the White man responded, his voice devoid of any enthusiasm.

And so the three exited the main tent.

The black cloak of night enshrouded them. The moon bestowed a cold glow, decorated by a sea of stars. The wind’s chill could crack stone, and it plucked at the bare skin of the men; its claws raising their goosebumps. The White man and the Bugti again stared at each other, and then at the Pathan. Blowing his pipe, the Pathan looked back at them, drew his pistol, raised the hammer, and entered the tent once again.

There were screams, followed by a gunshot, and then there was only one scream. A muffled cry went on for minutes, then a wet squelch, followed by laboured breaths. The men outside sat in stunned silence.

The Pathan returned from the tent. The moon lit his face, now a collage of purples and reds, his moustache, an obsidian bar. He looked to his compatriots, who themselves eyed the Indian god of savagery. His sleeves rolled high; his hands and arms painted in gore.

“It is done,” the god said. And he returned to the main tent, washing his face and hands in a water jug.

Dreams

The men woke with the sun, except the Bugti, who woke a little earlier to pray. The Bugti rubbed his eyes as he rose up, though before he could see, the stench of death assaulted his nose.

He turned to the murdered—no—killed elder. The old man still lay the same as he had following his execution. His mouth gaped open, a slimy black tongue dangling out of it. The eyes had rolled up, just the whites were visible. Blood continued to flow from his forehead and chest, his robes now entirely soaked, much of the carpet beneath was a sponge of gore.

The White man sighed and then gagged. That smell. The damn smell. He had smelt decomposing bodies before, but this odour was especially bad. Quite odd, given how little time had passed since the man’s passing, and there was a surprising lack of scavengers. Not even a fly circled the man’s body.

“Sorry, old fellow,” the White man uttered under his breath before spitting on the ground. He rummaged through the chests in the tent and found cloth to redress his head wound. The Pathan joined them, finding a long black cloth neatly folded among weapons. He stashed a looted knife and pistol in his belt and lit a fire under the teapot. The Pathan then began what the White man considered a “cruel and odd custom.” He sawed at the dead man’s throat to prepare another trophy.

The White man gagged at the sight. “You didn’t care to join the Bugti in prayers?”

“I don’t care to pray nowadays,” the Pathan said, his bloodied hands across the blade’s handle, the severed head rolling into his arms.

“You don’t believe?”

“I didn’t say that,” he responded, moving to fill the tea cup. He brought the hot drink to his lips, his eyes not leaving the earthen vessel.

The White man looked at his empty cup for a moment before filling it. “Then what do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said, sir.”

“Which was?”

“That I don’t care to pray nowadays.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“I did, and not anything else. That is exactly what I meant. It is exactly what I mean.”

“So, you still believe.”

“Believe what?”

“In religion?”

“Well, what is religion?”

“Oh, don’t be difficult with me, Pathan.”

“Well, what exactly do you want to know?”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes.”

The White man sat, waiting for an elaboration. But there was none. “But you don’t pray?”

“Nor do you.”

“Well, I am not a Muslim.”

“But you believe in God.”

“Not in the same sense that you do.”

“You don’t know in what sense I do personally—" There was a pause. “—sir.” And then a grin.

“So, in what sense do you believe?”

The Pathan threw his head back, swigging the tea. He lit his pipe and took a long puff. Finally, he turned his head to face the white man.

“I had a dream last night, sir.”

“Alright.”

“I was in a small village—something quite nondescript. Ordinary, in fact. An ordinary little rabble of mud huts. I don’t know if you can smell in dreams, though I imagine you can. It probably smells like shit and animals. It is dark, and I hold a pole with a lantern. There’s a red glow somewhere, and I walk towards it. And there she is. The most beautiful, alluring woman I have ever seen. Gorgeous. I stare at her, and she stares at me. I come close to her, and she takes my face in her hands, but they feel like fire, and my hands are bloodied. She smiles at me, her teeth red, and kisses me, her breath like iron.”

“And she told me, go forth and do what you know you must. She is War. And I love her. I am devoted to her. She is the material. The medium. And I am her instrument. I am hers. And so I went forth, and I killed everyone in that village, a smile on my face, knowing why I do this. War is my mistress, Smith. I worship her. And that is why I believe in God. For the existence of War, that which encompasses all, permeates all natures, is the underlying truth of all. She necessitates the existence of God. But do you know what the worst sin is? It is to worship that other than God. And I worship War. And so, I know my pursuit of this, my devotion to her, my obsession with my art, will lead me to hell. In fact, I am already there. I am in hell. I am its agent. I am a mushrik. I am its devotee.”

The White man’s eyes sunk into his skull, and he had unintentionally shuffled backwards. “What an odd dream, Pathan,” he said, his voice hoarse.

The Pathan grinned. “Oh, I have this dream every night, sir. And I awake with a smile on my lips.”

“Why did you tell me that?”

“You asked about my beliefs, and so I answered.”

The White man appeared uneasy, and so the Pathan continued smiling and said, “We all will be dead soon anyway, sir.”

On the Way to Kahan once again

The group felt uneasy as the sun did not completely rise, waiting in a seemingly permanent state of twilight, its cloak of purple draped above them. Whispering were the morning winds, cursing them for what they had done. The stench of rotting flesh followed. The cold tugged at their flesh, seeming to tear it from their bones. There was no life, no insects, no birds, and no dogs but them.

They walked in silence, their mouths muzzled, their eyes vacant. The Bugti, at their lead, pulled two camels stolen from the camp. The Pathan sat upon one camel, having tied the turban of the dead man on his own head. From his skull was made a trophy with its eyes and tongue removed. A knot from the hair was tied to his belt.

The White man sat upon the other, his wound dressing wrapped into something that vaguely resembled a turban. All three were wrapped in black shawls decorated with red and yellow threads. The Bugti having his own shawl, and the other two wearing pieces looted from the camp. They walked. And walked. And walked. The ground, still cracked and miserable beneath them, the weather still bitter and spiteful.

Hours passed before the White man complained of stomach pain, potentially derived from hunger, dysentery, or both. And so the three stopped and unravelled a carpet before bringing the camels down and trying to tie their legs together, the beasts groaning in protest.

“Shhhh,” the Bugti whispered to the creatures, patting their heads and stroking their necks.

The Pathan chuckled, “What are you doing, man?”

“Comforting it.”

“It’s an animal.”

“I know.”

“How are you comforting it?”

The Bugti looked at the Pathan, confused. “What?”

“How are you comforting it?”

“I stroke it, and I say all is well.”

“So, you are lying to it?”

“It’s an animal.”

“Yes. I said that already. You’re still lying to it,” the Pathan said, sitting down to light his pipe.

“Lies are sometimes necessary.”

“But the truth will always be apparent. Especially when that truth is violence.”

The Bugti stared silently while the camels bleated.

The Pathan continued. “In that sense, you could say that violence is the ultimate arbiter of truth and so war is the ultimate test of reality. So, war is the ultimate form and expression of truth.”

“What are you talking about?”

The Pathan spat and smiled, taking his pipe into his mouth again. He faced the Bugti. “I’m telling you the truth. War is all-encompassing. Violence is the basis of everything.”

“Not true,” the Bugti responded, clearing his throat and spitting by his feet.

“But it is.”

“Well, what about love?”

“Love?”

“Yes. Love. How is that war?”

“Are you married?”

“We do not talk about such things.”

“Are you married?”

“Do not—”

“Are you married?”

“—yes.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Does she love you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I provide. Because I protect.”

“Indeed. And what would you do if she was seen by another man?”

“What?” he whispered, anger in his voice.

“What would you do if she was seen by another man?”

“I would kill her and him.”

“And so—” the Pathan said, taking another puff on his pipe, then waving it like a wand. “What underpins your love is violence. And the consequence of violating this love is also violence. Your love is still underpinned by violence, and conflict defines it.”

The Bugti looked unconvinced. “No. You confuse an incidental aspect of love as defining it. Not underpinning it.”

“Tell me how violence is merely an incidental aspect of love. For I have told you how it underpins it.”

“The stories of the ancients,” the Bugti said, sitting by the Pathan. By this point, Smith had finished redressing his head wounds and came to join them. “The ancient romances end in death. Yes. But these deaths are incidental. They do not form the basis of their love. Adam and Durkhani. Their love stemmed from a mastery of art.”

The White man interjected. “And I would love to hear how you would define art as war, Pathan. Certainly, there are ways in which art, and martial prowess generally, can be artistic. But as art?”

The Pathan replied, “Well, Bugti, well, sir, what you say supports what I have stated. What is art?”

The White man responded, “An outward manifestation of inward expression.”

“So tell me, what is a greater manifestation of expression than to force it upon those who stand in your way? By your definition, if I were to dislike a man, would not the most primal, the most expressive expression of this dislike be to remove his head from his shoulders and then take his wife as mine? If I detested a people, what more perfectly encapsulates a manifestation, the physical embodiment of my hatred, than to butcher the children, the elderly, the men, and to take the young women as slaves upon which further expressions of rage are to be enacted in various forms? I ask you two here and now, is there a more clear way that I have expressed myself than this example? War is the highest form of art. It is the pinnacle and purest form of any human emotion, of any human expression.”

The head on the Pathan’s belt gently swayed in the wind, as if nodding in agreement. The Bugti looked at the Pathan, disgust apparent in his scrunched brow.

“I am not a man of knowledge. I am not a city man. I ride with my flock. I camp with my family. I protect them, as I do now. And I know what you say is wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Wrong in what sense?”

“You know it is wrong to kill people for art.”

“Well, whether it is wrong or right is beside the point. The point is, that it is art, the highest form of it, definitionally.”

The White man interjected again. “Perhaps the specific act of violence itself can be artistic. I will concede that. But to claim that war, in and of itself, is artistic is absurd. War is a scientific contest between nations. It is a process by which the strong, the enlightened, conquer the weak and the backward, to then share knowledge to uplift the savages. It is to protect or expand the polity. A natural process of survival and determination between states. Now, we, as men of virtue, then use our initiative to bring virtue post-conquest to the defeated. But the process itself is a natural one, so then it cannot be art.”

As the Pathan began his response, the Bugti interrupted. “What are you two even debating? Why is war one thing or why another? Must it be characterised instead of being just war?”

The Pathan repeated, “What a simple creature you are…” the Pathan repeated before he was made to be silent.

The men turned around as the winds struck from all directions, howling and screaming. The sky switched to dark; the stars smothered by an encompassing ethereal smog. The White man lit a torch and hung it on a pole, holding it out into the darkness. A gentle glow of the flicker of the flame seemed pathetic against the surrounding darkness.

And then it appeared.

Now

A silhouette appeared on the horizon, creeping towards the men. The winds stopped speaking; the silence pierced. Even the camels, tied and tired, ceased bleating. In that moment, nothing existed in the universe but the men and that which advanced towards them. It came towards them, staggering. And as it got closer, it visibly twisted with creaks, cracks, and snaps from bone and ligaments. A raspy breath paired with its pained gurgle; a low croak emanated from it.

“I-is that a woman?” The White man asked, crouched and squinting.

“Well, it is wearing a black burqa, so I suppose it is,” the Pathan said, loading a pistol with his pipe still in his mouth.

“But why is she by herself?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Bugti,” the Pathan said as he rose, bringing down the hammer. “God also blessed women with legs and, unfortunately, they sometimes use them to move.” He chortled and aimed his pistol at the figure.

“Oh, for the love of God, Pathan!” the White man barked.

But it was too late. The crack of gunpowder shattered as though splitting the world into a thousand pieces. The Bugti jumped to his feet, trying to wrestle the gun away, but the Pathan grabbed his neck before throwing him to the ground. He then cocked the pistol twice, fired twice, all shots finding their mark. But the figure did not fall. Instead, it propelled forward in a twisted march of agony, walking with audible cracking and creaking of its disfigured limbs.

The White man stared at the thing, moving back, dropping his torch. “Shoot that thing again!” he said as he picked up a rifle, hastily reloading it.

The Pathan shot again, and again nothing happened other than the slow advance, the gurgled cry, its joints breaking under its own weight.

The White man fired. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Each shot dissipated into the void as she came into view. Her black burqa was decorated in crusted puddles of blood, torn in a way that left her ivory face and hair exposed. She stared at the men with large emerald eyes and heavy lashes. An aquiline nose gave way to full lips that rasped and gurgled as her auburn hair danced with the winds. Her throat resembled a delicate lily. A gaping gash slashed through it, the wound appeared to breathe on its own, pulsating with a crimson sludge oozing from it.

The Pathan gasped and froze when he saw her face. “Run.”

“What?” the Bugti asked, loading his own weapon.

“Run.”

And so, the men floundered around the camp, pushing things over as they flailed over one another. They slung rifles and swords over their shoulders, stuffed knives and pistols into their belts. The men ran into the abyss, panicking as the tormented figure advanced, creeping and cracking towards them.

Having Run Away

“How long to Kahan?”

“I do not know.”

The Bugti’s knees became like water, and he collapsed on the ground, dry heaving and rolling onto his back. His tunic and trousers browned by dust, the white now a rustic orange, his turban lopsided. He unravelled the whole thing and threw the cloth to the floor. The White man followed, similarly collapsing and panting. He tore off his jacket, revealing a red-stained undershirt. He unwrapped his head wrap, holding it to his chest. His face had become pink, his chin caked in dried blood. Then the Pathan arrived, staring back at where they came from; his boots crushing the turban on the ground.

“Did anyone bring supplies with them?” There was silence. “Do you know how we can find water, Bugti?”

“Not here. I do not know.”

The sun emerged from across the horizon. The sea of sand before them was an endless desert, illuminated dimly by embers in the sky. No hills, no cliffs, no lakes, or streams. The desert dawn was cold. Cold enough to crack a man and send his soul to heaven or hell. The three men wrapped their shawls tightly, the Bugti also covering his face.

“Which way do we go?” the White man asked.

“Well, definitely not the way we came from, sir.”

“This is not Marri country. This is no country I know,” the Bugti responded.

“Alright. But again, which way do we go?”

“I do not know.”

The three stood in silence, except for the irregular chorus of morning gusts.

“What was that? That thing?” the White man started again. There was silence again. After a few moments, he confronted the Pathan. “You did this. This is because of you.”

“How could it be because of me?”

“Oh, don’t be coy, Pathan!” the White man shouted, jumping up in frustration. “You did this. What did you do in that tent?”

“What did that thing have to do with the tent?”

“I saw how you looked at her. You knew her, didn’t you?” the White man asked, taking steps closer. “Was she in the tent? What did you do to her?”

Standing tall, the Pathan replied, “I conquered and acted according to the rights of the conqueror.”

“You bastard.”

“There is nothing bastardly about it. These are the rules of war, and I acted in accordance with them. Rules fully endorsed and known by you, your company, and its directors.”

The White man charged at the Pathan, howling, grabbing for his legs, but the Pathan sprawled atop him. The two grappled on the ground before they came to their feet, using each other as support. The White man hooked his fist into the Pathan’s jaw.

The Pathan grunted and stumbled a bit before pouncing back and clenching the White man tightly, squeezing his forearms into his neck and grinding his chin into his eye socket. He disengaged for a second and threw his elbow into the White man’s forehead, constricting him again. He smashed his elbow into the White man three more times, splitting his forehead open, the blood now a stream down his face as he fell again to his knees. The blood splattered upon the sand. As he heaved and panted, the Pathan kicked him in his ribs. He spat blood. The Pathan looked to the Bugti and stared blankly. The Bugti stared back at him, a great Indian god of death.

The maroon silhouette, lord of the horizon, stood tall ahead of the dawn. His sculpted face, an idol carved from sandstone. The Bugti shuddered, turning to face the White man on the ground. He took a step towards him, but stepped back at the great avatar of destruction before him.

The White man slowly rose to his knees, coughing red mist. He wiped his face and then held his hands before him and shuddered.

“You’re a dead man when we reach Kahan.”

There was no response. Instead, the Pathan looked off to the horizon and cracked his knuckles into his palms. He turned again to the Bugti. “You don’t know where we are.”

“No.”

“Alright.”

The Pathan squatted down and removed the trophy head from his belt. He looked into its eye sockets, now empty galaxies, cold and unfeeling. The Bugti watched for what seemed like an eternity before the Pathan tied the head back to his belt and stood up.

With the sunrise, the dunes became visible before them, a small formation of red cliffs far off into the distance.

“Do you see those?”

“I do.”

“Do you know them?”

“I do not.”

“It would be a better place to be.”

“It would. But it will get hot.”

“Hmm?”

“Very hot. Midday desert sun.”

“Alright.”

“And we have no water.”

“I am aware. So let’s get this over with.”

The Bugti grunted and spat on the ground, green jelly pulsating on the sands.

“What of the White man?”

“He can come. But I am going to kill him before we rendezvous with the Indian army.”

“Kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he will have you and I killed. But, more importantly, because I can, and I want to.” The Pathan smiled.

“You do not know if he will because it has not happened. And you cannot kill a man just because you want to.”

“Actually, I can.”

“No,”

“It has been the case so far. And who will stop me from killing the White man? You?”

“Yes.”

The Pathan chuckled. “Just like you stopped me from killing that old man and his women?”

The Bugti said nothing as the two stared at each other. Then, the Bugti withdrew his pistol from his belt and aimed it at the Pathan’s forehead.

“Go on,” the Pathan urged.

The Bugti stood still. He shivered, and he did not know if it was because of a sudden gust or if it had come from inside him. Time froze. He could hear the thumping of his heart, the rhythmic drumbeat of his breaths. He lowered the weapon, returning it to his belt.

“You’ve never killed a man before,” the Pathan remarked, his eyes narrow, his face blank. Again, the Bugti remained silent, lowering his gaze.

“Funny,” he continued. “The white men often think you hill tribes are fierce killers, but I know better. Certainly, tribal groups are capable of awe-inspiring violence. But you are too stupid to realise that war and violence are art. And by ‘you’, I mean you individually and your people as a collective. I explained this to you, how the greatest form of expression is art and the most complete, dominating manifestation of expression is war, but you didn’t understand. Even now, you don’t.”

The Bugti looked despondent.

“On we go,” the Pathan commanded, grabbing the pistol from the Bugti’s hand, throwing it into the sand.

The Bugti stood in silence for a bit before helping the White man to his feet, taking his arm over his shoulder.

“Quickly—before that thing comes back.”

The three slowly marched across the sands as the sun, at its zenith, beat down, roasting the men’s flesh, caking their blood and scars. The Pathan re-wrapped his turban to cover his entire face, and effortlessly crushed sand beneath his boots. Besides the Bugti’s little brown cap, he and the White man bore naked heads. Their skin began to blacken and crack under the celestial oven. Their throats tightened as pools of phlegm coagulated in the back of their throats, but none dared to spit.

They grew weaker as they summited hills of sand, crossing destitute oases. Beads of sweat fell like rosary beads from their brows and noses. The men passed the skeleton of a beast. Its colossal, bleached bones, an ancient megalith erect since time immemorial. They marched through its ribs; giant vertebrae casting shadows. Its dark cavern provided brief respite from the sun.

“What is this thing?” the Pathan asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“Have you come across them before?” asked the White man, who was now walking properly; the gash in his head welded shut by the sun.

“Yes.”

“Have you asked anyone about them?”

“No.”

The White man sighed loudly. “You Orientals are a lazy, idiotic bunch. For God’s sake! You have a great mystery in front of you and you have not the slightest interest in solving it.”

“Why should I?”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Because knowledge is something one should aspire to gain.”

“I know what I need to.”

“But you could know more.”

The Pathan’s face snarled. “Why would he need to know more? He lives in some God forsaken hill in the middle of nowhere. His only experience of life prior to this was probably herding sheep. Tell me, Britisher. Tell me why he needs to know this, and what this was. Your preoccupation with knowing has done nothing for us. You ‘know’ and it means nothing. You’re still stuck with him, running from something you will never understand.”

“You and your kind would never understand. You can shoot guns and that’s about it. That’s all you are and all you’ll ever be good for, and you will never understand the sense of curiosity and desire to attain knowledge that propels men to greatness.”

“Yes, and your greatness in knowing things has helped you on this expedition. The entire column was wiped out. Your entire column was wiped out. And now look where we are. What do you even know? What did you know about those raiders? What did you know about any of this country?”

“Well, Pathan, I know it is wrong to murder innocent people.”

The Pathan laughed. “On whose behalf do the Indians kill?” he asked, leaning on a rib. The bone’s shadow cast itself over him, enveloping the warrior in a black cloak. The whites of his eyes pierced through the darkness, his high cheekbones and jaw stressed by his thick moustache.

“The Indians kill because that is the only thing they know. I have tried to civilise you and your people and God willing, we will continue to do so. But at present, in history and for the foreseeable future, you are and will be savages. You kill because you can. You are creatures of impulse, and that is all there is to it. We may be at war with the Afghans, or the Russians, or the Punjabis, and you will fight—not because you care—but because you can.”

The Pathan’s teeth penetrated the shadows, curling into another smile.

Then the Bugti stood up. “Horror is here. Even so, you two speak much and say nothing.”

“Well, what would you like us to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Fine then. Bugti, you speak. What was that thing? That woman who chased us?”

“Ask him,” the Bugti said, pointing to the Pathan.

“How would I know what it was?” he said.

“She was in the tent. Wasn’t she?”

The Pathan hesitated for a moment. “Someone who looked like her was in the tent, but you’re not seriously asking me to believe that they are the same?”

“Not a question of belief. It is.”

“How can that be? I killed her, Bugti. I did what I wished with her and I slit her throat with my own hands. I sawed her head halfway off with my bayonet and saw the white of her vertebrae as I cut her flesh. How is she alive? And if she is alive, how did she not die after being shot? There is no way it is her. People are not like that.”

“She is no longer people,” the Bugti said.

“What are you talking about?”

The White man interrupted, “No, I remember reading of something like this. Collective delusions. I can’t remember too much of the specifics, but multiple people who are in a stressful situation can fall prey to a kind of shared hysteria. That must be it. The Pathan is right. People cannot survive their throats being slit, let alone being shot multiple times.”

The Bugti sighed. “You asked me on knowing about it. Well now, I tell you what I know. That is her. That is who you killed.”

“If I killed her, how does she live?”

“Because she is no longer people.”

“Yes, exactly,” the Pathan said, his dark figure slowly approaching. “It’s a figment of our fatigue.”

The Bugti sat with his legs tucked under his body, and he once again sighed a long, laboured breath.

Koh-i-Chiltan

“This is an ancient country. Older than white men or Indians know. Old forces live here. Old forces that I do not understand. No one understands. But this place—it does things. I do not know what it does. But the country can do things to people. To animals. Not good things. I think Satan must do it. Because he torments the dead. The living too. But the dying and the dead especially.

“The elders tell us about the ancients. In one account was a very poor man and his wife, who lived high in the mountains. Neither could have children. They searched for a saint to intercede for them, to help them conceive, but each one told the couple that their plight was what God had written. This was their test, but they did not listen.

“One day, a wanderer arrived, dressed in all black, his face wrapped tightly in a turban. They could only see his eyes—empty, red eyes. He told the couple, ‘I am the Saint of a realm you do not know. I will give you children if you only do what I ask.’ So, the couple agreed, participating in dark rituals. They desecrated the book and word of God, mocked His messengers and apostles, and disparaged and associated partners with His power. Then the wanderer disappeared and the woman fell pregnant and gave birth. And then she fell pregnant again, and she gave birth again. And again. And again. And again—until there were too many children. The youngest child was normal. The rest were all deformed in some way. Some with eyes that were totally black. Some had stubs on their heads—horns. Some even had cloven feet. But the woman loved them all as a mother would love her children. But they could not afford them. So, one winter, the man gathered all of his children, except the youngest. He led them up the mountain and told them to wait at the summit; he left them there as he descended for home. The woman found out, and she cried and cried, trying to reach the top, but the snow made it impossible. A few years passed, and the youngest was now a healthy, beautiful boy with an interest in exploring. He wanted to climb the mountain on a fine spring day, so his mother took him. When they reached the top, they heard laughter and saw the abandoned children. The children were as peculiar as they had once been. They called out, ‘Our mother, our mother, we are here!’ The woman cried in joy to be reunited, responding with, ‘My loves, I am here.’ And they said to her, ‘Mother, close your eyes. We want to play with our brother. Close your eyes, then try to find us!’ So she closed her eyes and smiled.

She opened her eyes, and no one was there. The youngest child, gone too.”

“Why did you tell us that, Bugti?”

“Don’t know. Maybe I thought if I told you, you would understand. You would comprehend what this country is, what happens here, that sometimes what is apparent is true, and that what is true isn’t always logical, especially when it is evident.”

“Your ghost story means nothing, Bugti. And it does not explain that thing we saw. It was a collective hysteric episode. That is all. We need to get to Kahan, and we will survive and be fine.”

“Yes. It must have been a collective delusion. It is a coincidence it bore resemblance to the woman of that tent. I can’t believe it to be real.”

“Again. It is not belief. It is truth and it is evident.”

“If you say so, Bugti, but we must leave and we must get out.”

The men left the respite of the cavernous carrion. The sun dipped low, and the winds and sands grew cool. The North Star emerged in the purple sky, reminding them of the night to come.

“From the location you remember last, where was Kahan in relation to true north?” the Pathan asked, staring at the star.

“Southeast.”

“Then that is the best way to go. In any case, it is where the cliffs are.”

“We have no idea if we are still in a location to which Kahan remains in the southeast. And we have tried to reach those cliffs for a day with no food, and it seems we will not reach there before we die of dehydration,” the White man said.

“Perhaps. But we have no other options,” replied the Pathan, sifting sand between his fingers. “Clearly, we three are delirious, suffering from collective hysteria. And it seems we either move southeast, or we stay and die of madness and dehydration.”

In response, the White man nodded in agreement, so they proceeded. The Bugti scanned the landscape and scrunched his brow.

“What’s wrong, Bugti?” the Pathan asked.

“Blood.”

“Yes. It’s from when I cut the White man.”

“I know.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“No hyenas. No birds.”

“Well, the night is setting.”

“None earlier, either.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? We don’t have many bullets between us,” the White man said.

“Not normal,” he said, turning back and pulling his shawl tightly over his face.

Traversing the Night

The Pathan headed the group and drearily marched the men through the frigid sands. The tail of his turban wrapped around his face, his shawl over his head and body as he gripped its corners tightly. They followed the North Star, the brilliant diamond among the dull pearls. The moon, a lamp over the celestial treasure chest. Winds once again sang their solemn shanty, frost and chill piercing every note. The dry freeze pained like an ice pick lodged in their parched throats. They shivered, their teeth chattering violently.

The White man and the Bugti walked back a few paces, shuddering as they plodded along. The White man’s hair fluttered in the wind, whilst the Bugti’s locks were kept tightly wound in his shawl.

“He’s going to kill us, you know,” the White man whispered.

“Maybe,” replied the Bugti, his face sternly forward.

“Not a maybe. He will.”

“He said that you said to kill me when I take you to Kahan.”

“Maybe I did, Bugti. But it was immediately after my men were slaughtered by those other Baloch. And besides, that hardly matters now, does it? You’ve seen what he does, what he’s capable of. He’ll do it to us.”

The Bugti grunted. “He may, but he is your man.”

“Hmm. He is our man. Or rather, was our man. We need to dispatch him before he rids us.”

The Bugti snorted audibly as the Pathan glanced behind at them. “You lost control of your Indian,” the Bugti said.

“Lost control of my Indian? You can never control Indians.”

“Sure, you can.”

“Before this, had you ever met Indians?”

“Yes. Merchants and slaves.”

“And did you ever meet a good Indian?”

“Only good Indian I ever met were dead Indians.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Well, now I’ve met a free Indian. And he scares me.”

“So, you know what we have to deal with?”

“Yes, but the White men are behind the Indians.”

“No, no, no. Listen here, Bugti. I tell you here and now that, living amongst the Indians, I am more qualified than any to speak on them. I am telling you that no one can control them. They are wild, beastly people who have descended from ancient glories to hedonism and degeneracy. You know India was a land of murder, banditry, and anarchy and that the changes in circumstances were solely due to us. We used politics and violence as a tool to educate them. To show them the wonders of the natural sciences, the rational, the empirically true. But the Indian spirit is built on millennia of casteism and deference to authority. Those unfamiliar with the Indians may incorrectly assume they are a people submissive and easy to control, and that may be true on a group level, but individual Indians are often violent, deranged criminals. Tell me of a place on earth with anything comparable to the thuggees or the roving rohillas. You can’t, because the Indian is uniquely savage. The Indian is a simple creature whose entire being is about violently asserting authority upon the feeble to be rewarded by the ruler. And when there is no firm ruler, there is anarchy and violence. To rule Indians is to enforce consequence on a race that wishes to exist in constant predation of their inferiors. There is nothing noble about them. They plan faux philosophies, justifying their depraved nonsense as esoteric or artistic, but they are savages, a wretched race. They need a hard stick to bring them to heel. He needs to be brought to heel.”

The Bugti remained silent.

The White man continued, “You said it yourself, that the only good Indian is a dead Indian, and we can make a good Indian right here.”

“Are you two planning to kill me?”

The White man froze in his tracks and so did the Bugti. “No, don’t be stupid, Pathan.”

“Well, you’re hardly back there whispering, discussing how to throw me a party,” the Pathan responded. His obsidian eyes sliced through the night to the White man, who lowered his face to the ground. The Bugti looked at the Pathan, whose usual maroon skin appeared blue and black under the sky’s lamps.

“It’s quite alright,” the Pathan continued. “It’s only natural you would, and so I don’t resent you for it. Both of you seem to have developed a dislike for me, especially this White man who failed to get the better of me. If I were you, I would probably do the same.”

“We weren’t planning anything,” the White man reiterated.

“I find there to be a natural prohibition amongst Englishmen telling the truth. I’m not sure if this is something you agree on as a society or if it is genetically predisposed. But it is evident that everything an Englishman says is either a lie or a statement to be broken. Perhaps that is unfair to say this about Englishmen. I am sure Scots or the Welsh are scarcely better, but I’ve never seen a White man’s word to be true.”

“And Indians are the paragon of truth and virtue? Remind me of the state of the land before we arrived.”

“Indians may not speak in truth, and an Indian’s word is never to be trusted, if I am to say so myself. But I must say that Indians act in a way more apparently truthful than an Englishman could ever imagine. The Indian deals in violence and fear, these two being the key considerations informing the fact of life—survival. In a way, Indians are the most truthful men on earth. White men write in abstracts about esoteric assumptions or conclusions of nature. The Indian speaks and behaves as is apparent in the reality around him.”

“There were Indian philosophers and English idiots. Neither is entirely one nor the other,” the Bugti remarked.

“Thank you, Bugti,” said the Pathan. “Obviously, not every Englishman is one way and not every Indian is one way. That is not what I was saying. Rather, in general, this is the rule that describes the attributes of Indians and White men.”

“Take the rule. It is evidently wrong on so many occasions. So, what is the point of the rule?”

“To describe in broad strokes the traits and qualities of these people, as I have said.”

The Bugti grunted. “Hmm. The White Man says you are one thing, because he knows Indians are like that. And you say he must be another thing because you know English men are like that. But you can be neither nor both.”

The Pathan laughed and looked towards the Bugti, his face like carved granite glistening in the lunar rays. “You see Bugti, as with art, I—”

His laughter turned to instant dread. The winds stopped singing, transforming into screeching banshees speeding through the sky. The stars and moon faded.

“What is this?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is this!”

“I don’t know.”

“This isn’t a delusion.”

“No. Yes. It must be. It can’t be. It must be.”

“She’s here.”

“No, no, no.”

“She is here.”

The shadowy figure staggered towards them, with vicious winds surrounding her. The ghastly chorus reached a crescendo, screaming in pain and regret. The sands rose with her; their grains swept up from the dunes, grounding her every step. The men’s breathing became heavy and laboured. The White man panted hysterically, falling to his knees.

“It’s not real. It’s a figment of our imagination!”

“For God’s sake, it’s the same thing as before! How can it then be a delusion?” the Pathan shouted.

“We—we haven’t had water for two days. We’re crazy. It’s not real.”

“Alright,” the Pathan said as he backed away with the Bugti. “It’s not real.”

“Yes, I said it’s not real. I’m dehydrated. I’m hungry. I’m stressed. This isn’t anything but my mind.”

“Yes, alright. Yes, you’re right,” the Pathan said as he and the Bugti slipped into the night.

The woman continued to advance, slowly, cricks and cracks audible with her every movement. Her body staggered towards the White man.

The White Man

In the all-encompassing darkness stood the White man and a woman—perhaps even a girl—with no name. The winds, the chill, and sands ceased to exist. In this moment, the only things apparent were him and her. The White man studied the woman, her ivory skin replacing the moon in radiance. Her plump, cherry lips wore a line of blood running to her jaw, slowly dripping from her chin. She licked her lips, wiping her cheeks with her long, pointed tongue. Her high cheekbones cast a shadow across the rest of her face and her sapphire eyes shone like stars in the darkness, a captivating eminence that froze the White man in place. As she exhaled, a hiss came from the gash in her delicate throat, only to be replaced by a wretched croak as she inhaled. Flesh, blood, and plasma oozed and pulsated like a gory jelly. Inside the sliced throat sat a black carrion bird, barely the size of a man’s thumb. It picked and tore at the wound, nibbling on black and green pus around its new nest. Her eyes fixed on him, and he could do little but stare back with eyes wide and mouth gaped.

“You’re not real. You’re not.”

The woman raised her arms slowly, her black cloak retreating from white wrists. Spindly fingers appeared as spider limbs and scorpion tails, wiry and edged with jagged claws for nails. She placed those nails on his face as he insisted that he was in a dream. Perhaps he knew it was not, for her flesh on his was white hot, a fire never experienced before.

She hissed and gasped, rubbing her palms across his cheeks and brow before setting them just above his eyes. She stabbed them with her thumbs, skewering them upon the digits. He let out a blood-curdling scream, grasping her arms, trying desperately to move her hands. But every time he tried to grab her; her flesh burnt through him. He screamed in pain, wailing like a stray dog being torn asunder and eaten alive by wild hyenas. Her thumbs remained in his sockets, and she pulled and pulled, the internal breaks and fractures of his face splitting into two. His skull tore apart from the inside, his eye sockets, then his maxilla, then mandible, and then the frontal lobe cracked apart. Blood and brain fluid poured from his facial orifices.

The woman stood in the desert, slowly bringing her prize to her. The clumps of crumpled flesh, bone, hair, and viscera in each of her hands. She threw them on the sands, next to the collapsed corpse, now in a pool of its own blood. Most of the brain remained intact on the ground and she stomped on it, pounding it into nothingness. She then turned her green gaze to the two brown men across the dunes who began running. And she followed.

Scaling Cliffs

The Bugti and the Pathan ran into the great black void, directionless and lost. The Pathan’s boots were worn through. One of them lost a sole, so he ran on his bare sock. The Bugti had lost both sandals some time ago, and his feet were cut on jagged stones, but he did not realise it, because they now felt like frozen stubs, devoid of feeling.

The two looked back and saw a trail of their own blood following them. They escaped the nightmare for now, if only temporarily. The sun rose again, turning the black into purple. It was cold, but still warmer than the night, and so their nerves slowly returned to their limbs and digits.

The Bugti and Pathan started to dry heave. Both yelling from pain and exhaustion, staring at paths of their own viscera in the sands. The Bugti fell to the floor, and the Pathan squatted down by him.

“We need water,” the Pathan said.

“I know.”

“Where do we get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Yes.”

“If we can’t find water, I’m going to kill you and drink your blood.”

The Bugti said nothing and stared at the ground. Then he spoke again, “You see. She is not just in our imagination.”

It was the Pathan’s turn to be silent and to stare at the sand. He stood up and pointed weakly towards the cliffs. “There must be vegetation up there. We can wring them out for water and try to eat them for nutrition.”

“She’s coming.”

“From the cliffs we can then scout out where we will advance to, still southeast I believe, towards Kahan.”

“She is coming for you.”

The Pathan sighed and readjusted his turban, the black cloth still tightly wound despite all the exertion. “How do you know it is coming for me?”

The Bugti pointed to the head tied to his hips.

“This?”

“Yes.”

“It wants the head?”

“Maybe. Maybe revenge for her father. Or herself. But it wants you.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“No. But you have a head on your belt. And you killed her.”

“How did I kill her if she is clearly alive and walking?”

“The White man tried to argue with reality. Look what happened. You’re next, Indian.”

“How do I stop it?”

“I don’t know.”

The Pathan grabbed the old man’s head and removed it from his belt. The thing barely stayed in his grip, its flesh now grey. Slimy clumps of fat and skin fell into his palms. The hair had fallen out, but there was no smell and no flies. He looked into its empty eye sockets, black voids that contained the endless depth of space and time within them. He faced back to the Bugti. “I will give her this.”

“Okay.”

“Will she accept it?”

“I don’t know.”

The two stood silently for a few moments, the cold gusts soon replaced by the lashings of the sun. The men looked towards the cliffs they intended to scale and cupped their eyes. For the first time in a long time, they saw an animal along it. It was too distant to make out what exactly it was.

“There must be vegetation; something is living off of it,” the Pathan remarked.

“Might be a predator. A hyena,” the Bugti retorted.

“Even better. A predator means prey, and prey means plants, and plants mean water.”

The Bugti grunted in agreement.

“I figure we could get up there in less than half a day.”

“I agree. If there are no distractions.”

“Oh, I intend for there to be none, Bugti.”

“Neither did the White man intend for one.”

“Yes, well,” the Pathan began as he and the Bugti ventured across the dunes towards the cliff. “White men generally don’t intend for many of the consequences they bring upon themselves.”

“But you killed her.”

“Yes. But why am I here?”

“Because you chose to be.”

The Pathan scoffed and then chuckled, smiling for the first time in a while. “And so did you.”

“I did what I had to do for my people.”

“And I for mine. But the difference between you and me, Bugti, is that I am cut out for this. I have told you before. War is art and I am its greatest student, but you don’t understand, and you never will. You’re just some man who thought he could gain a few rupees. You’re not a killer, but I am. And I have done what I needed to do, and enjoyed what rights my mastery over this art has bought me. But you can’t and you won’t.”

“Maybe. But I do not need your words and your philosophy to convince me. Killing an innocent man and raping his women is wrong.”

The Pathan laughed again and put his arm around the Bugti’s shoulders. “I see. You know it is wrong for me to kill men and enjoy women, and then kill them too, because you’re a man of principles. But it is not wrong for you to bring me to them?”

“I did not know you would do that.”

“What is it you suppose a conquering army does, Bugti? Do they coddle the men they conquer? Do they treat the women as their mothers and raise the children as their own? No, you idiot. You know the rules of the art as well as I do, even if you pretend to be ignorant of them. We kill every man. We kill all the elderly. We kill the children, the babies, and the women carrying them in their arms or wombs. We spare only the young women unburdened by offspring and we take them as our slaves, and even then, if we so desire, we may kill some of them for sport as well. This is the ultimate form of expression, the peak of art. To assert complete domination, to the point of death, upon your rival, to slit the throats of his children, and to take his women as prizes. This is war. This is what you brought us to do.”

“No. No. This is what you have done.”

“And I could only have done it thanks to you,” the Pathan said, grinning, still hugging the Bugti under his arm.

“So, see the retribution your action has brought upon you.”

The Pathan scowled. “Upon us.”

“Upon you.”

“How are you so uncertain that it wants nothing to do with you and everything to do with me?”

“Again. Who killed her?”

“Hmm. And who bought us into her father’s tents as guests? Who disarmed him, pretending to be a native friend. I’ve said it before and I will say it again, Bugti, you’re a fool. You know the policy of the company and you know the nature of war, and you still claim to be ignorant. Actually, you are not a fool. You’re a coward. You know reality and your culpability in it, but you close your eyes and pretend to be ignorant.”

“I know what is evident, and that actions rest with those who commit them.”

The Pathan laughed and said, “She is coming for you, Bugti. She is coming for you, too.”

“If she comes, give her the head.”

“Well, hopefully we will have worked our way out of this by then.”

“You can’t outrun her.”

“We already have, twice.”

“These things play with us. She could have killed us both by now. Appease her with the head when she returns.”

“You think it will work?”

“I don’t know.”

“Alright. Well, we don’t have much else to work with now, do we?”

“No.”

“We need to scale that cliff?”

“Yes.”

Under the burning heat marched the two brown men, stumbling, thirsty, and hungry. They became dumb, unwilling to dry their throats with parched words. The sand cooked the leather of their boots and the skin of their feet, boiling the blood that dripped on its wretched grains.

The Bugti fell by a large black rock. He hugged it and pulled himself atop of it; the thing cooking his limbs through his tunic. “I cannot go on.”

“Okay,” remarked the Pathan, who squatted for a bit, coughing, before he walked again.

“You will not wait for me?”

“Why would I?”

“I would wait for you.”

“Well, I’m not you.”

“That is clear.”

“Then why try to force an equivalence?”

“Maybe you would change.”

“I would not. Certainly not for you.”

“I can’t go any further,” the Bugti said. He lifted his feet, mangled and bloodied like a freshly slaughtered lamb. The white undersides of his feet had become bright red, fried by the scorching sands.

The Pathan looked at the Bugti’s stumps and sighed. He drew his pistol from his belt and examined the chamber.

“You will shoot me?” asked the Bugti.

“It would be a mercy. But no,” said the Pathan. He fiddled around with the thing, emptying the chamber into his hand, counting the single bullet and carefully placing it back.

“Then what?”

“Leave you here, I suppose.”

“I will die.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why will you leave me to die?”

The Pathan sighed and wiped his face with his hands. He came to the side of the Bugti’s stone and crouched down beside him, his knees audibly cracking as he did so. He wiped yellow mucus from the edge of his eyes and sighed once more.

“Alright Bugti, there are four options here. One is that I wait here with you. Look at the condition of your feet. You won’t ever leave here on your own accord. You will die of dehydration, or that woman will come back here. In such a case, I also die, either through the woman or water. Second, I can try to carry you with me to the cliff. What will I do with you when we arrive and we need to scale it? I can’t carry you, and you can’t climb. So again, you will die through any number of ways, and so will I. Besides, Bugti, you know I am also thirsty. I can’t take you there. Third, I shoot you. That would be best for you, but I may well need this bullet, and I cannot waste it on you. So, that leaves us with the fourth option. I will leave you here whilst I go to the cliffs.”

The two sat in silence for a moment.

“Do you understand?” the Pathan asked.

“Yes.” And they remained in silence for some time more. “I cannot be bait for her if she wants to kill you.”

“Of course you can. You’ll be here, and she’s no doubt following us.”

“These things don’t work like that.”

“Work like what?”

“Not how you think.”

“What?”

“It’s out for revenge. It will get you.”

“Perhaps,” the Pathan said, strapping his boots and raising the pistol to his face once more. He caressed its barrel and wooden handle, his maroon hand blending into the mahogany hilt that gave way to ornately decorated iron. “But before it does, it will get you.”

The Pathan walked away, but the abandoned meat behind him called out.

“You speak of war and philosophy and art and morals, but you will leave me here to die.”

“War has no time for mercy for the meek.”

“You’re a sick man.”

“You’re a dead one.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m terrified.”

And for the first time in a long time, the Bugti saw the Pathan as he really was. The great Indian god of war had become mortal, fear clear in his actions and face. “All that complex philosophy. Questioning me and my morals. Speaking of art. Speaking of war. But you’re just like me. A man. Just a man.”

“Well, that was never a doubt in my mind,” the Pathan said. He stopped again, crossing his legs on the sand. He removed his open, torn red coat. “He who lives by the sword must appreciate that man is mortal. And no one is more familiar with this than soldiers. And what is an Indian good for but soldiering? Not much, in all honesty. Myself, those Rohillas who came with us, and many other men understand, or understood, this.

“I know, I’m a man. I know I’m mortal. And it’s that mortality, that fact that I am just a man, that brings me joy when I slaughter apes like yourself. I enjoy snuffing out the flickering candles of life from those who are in my way. I told you, I worship war, and these are my sacrifices to her. I am just a man—one dedicated to war. So, I am a killer of men. A killer of women. A killer of children. And as a man dedicated to war, I always knew that one day, something would do the same to me. Something would come to me, related to war, and snuff out my existence in the same way I have done to countless others.

“This may well be my end. Gone. The very act of my death, a final spectacle of devotion in the endless violence that is prayer. But I don’t want that. At least, not now. Not before you. I’m not sure ever.

“So, I will save myself, Bugti. I’m not sorry that I won’t put you out of your misery. You’re between me and it, and I’d rather you buy me time to drink and leave. I promise you, when I arrive at Kahan, I will join the largest army the White men have ever assembled from India, and we will march into these forsaken mountains and deserts and kill every single one of your wretched race. We will slaughter your men and elderly and children and rape your young women and bring them back to India as slaves, where we will rape them all again in full view of the entire country.”

The Pathan picked up the skull from his belt and raised it, staring into its sockets. “You have my word.”

“An ugly oath.”

“I intended it to be.” The Pathan stood up and rolled his jacket up under his sleeve. He hesitated and unrolled it, removing a brass pin and throwing it at the Bugti. It landed squarely in the lap of his tunic. “I have one mercy for you. Split your arteries and veins with it if you want.”

The Bugti picked it up in silence and clasped it between both of his black hands, resting it on his stomach.

The Desert

The Pathan wandered through the sands, struggling through the beige inferno in his undershirt, khakis, broken boots, and his red jacket under his armpit. In his belt, he carried a pistol with a single shot, a bayonet, and the decapitated head swaying from his belt. The black turban was now wrapped across his face and neck. He stopped for a bit, huffing, and wiped the bridge of his nose on his sleeve. There was no sweat, and he knew what that meant. All the while, the cliffs appeared no closer. In fact, they seemed further. He wondered if there were any hills at all, let alone ones containing any semblance of life.

He replayed what he saw on the cliff again and again in his head, trying to discern if the shadows of creatures resembled the shape of any animal he knew of, or if it was a mirage induced through dehydration. But if it was his imagination, then how did the Bugti see it? Clearly through the phenomenon explained by that poor White man. Collective hysteria. His mind wandered for a second, contemplating if the word “hysteria” had to mean what he assumed it meant, a crazy reaction to something imagined—or if one seeing a mirage would similarly satisfy its definition. If it did, then what was the difference between one’s imagination and one’s hysteria?

His head snapped back to his present circumstance, ceasing to contemplate on the meanings of English words. Instead, he pondered his situation. There were two possibilities: the cliff was real, or it was not. And there were two possible conditions of that cliff: that it sustained life, or it did not. So, the Pathan sat and calculated that, given his state, there was perhaps an equal chance of delusion as there was of the cliff being real. Any life he witnessed may have also been a hallucination; the second was dependent on the first. He would most likely die here, but if he kept pushing, there was a slim chance he might save himself.

He rose to his feet once more, his boots now feeling like thin wraps of leather bandages around his battered feet. His joints cracked under each step; his head ached in sharp jolts in ways he did not know the head could produce. He tried to control his breathing. He rubbed his hands; the skin became like paper, crumpling and folding under the pressure, but it did not revert to its original state. Looking towards the impossible cliffs, he lifted off again. The beating sun, only a slight relief as it descended from its zenith. Every few steps, he stopped to catch his breath. His vision clouded with black spots. The Pathan staggered and stopped, staggered and stopped, and continued like this.

The cliffs appeared no closer. The beige wastelands did not cease in any direction. The Pathan contemplated for a moment, deciding to wait for the cool night to continue, and lay in the sands. He unbuttoned his khakis; the metal stinging his fingers with conducted heat, and removed his undershirt. He tied the garments together to form a makeshift blanket, which he wrapped around his body. He unwrapped the turban, the fabric cooking in his hands, and placed it to his side. The Pathan unrolled his jacket, laid it onto the sand, sat upon it, and untied what remained of his boots. Lying down, he then took a loose sleeve from his blanket and wrapped it around his head, creating an insular void in the face of the screaming sun. He roasted in the sand as the heat radiated through his jacket, but this was better than lying directly on the sand, being flash-fried alive.

Despite the mental and physical difficulty, the Pathan eventually drifted into a bleak abyss, empty voids encapsulating him. He slowly succumbed to sleep, its absence of conciseness, an eternity in nothing. But the Pathan woke again, his brain screaming in pain, his eyes heavy, his limbs dead. He untied the sleeve from his face and looked around at his unchanged circumstance. The sun had not moved, the sands still scorched, and the cliffs were still far.

The Pathan closed his eyes, picked at their lids, plucking away the mucus with his fingernails. He gagged, trying to hold his throat firm, for he knew he could not risk losing more moisture. But he could not help it and spat out a green, pulsating blob into the sand. It burrowed into the ground. The Pathan stared at where his spit had once been, deciding he had gone insane. He then felt the sand, something wet in it, and disputed if he really had lost his sanity or if something else was happening. Or both.

He removed the head from his belt, tried to split it open with his bayonet, but it had become jerky under the sun. So, he sliced a piece of the cheek and chewed on it. It was dry, sucking more moisture from his parched tongue than it provided. The Pathan gagged again. He scraped the crushed flesh from his tongue and threw it onto the sand where it sizzled for a few moments. He hooked at remnants of flesh from between his incisors and pulled at that which was stuck in the gaps of his molars, but he could not reach it all, leaving remnants pinched in his gums.

The Pathan untied his makeshift blanket, put on his undershirt, and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. He buttoned up his khakis, wrapped what was left of his boots around his feet, and rolled his jacket under his shoulder before throwing the turban loosely around his head and shoulders. He attached the head to his belt, struggling up to continue his fruitless advance. He could now hardly stand, and every few steps he fell again to his knees.

An endless ocean of beige surrounded the Pathan. Dunes rolled on forever, rippling into innumerable infinities; the great sand plains expanded into eternity. The sky was a brilliant blue, the kind men admired as the sun shone brightly, not a cloud in sight. Except this was torture. The lack of clouds meant no respite and no rain. The perfect sky offered no protection from the cosmic torment that drained him physically and emotionally. The Pathan dragged himself atop a dune and cupped his hands over his eyes, observing the boundless expanse before him. He noted the innumerable particles of microscopic sand comprising the desert. If he was a bit more put together, he would have something profound to say, but philosophising escaped his mind. He refocused on the cliffs, continuing his traverse through the wastelands.

A little wind emerged across the sand peaks. At first, it was barely noticeable, like a child gently tugging at the ends of a tunic. And after some time, it was a nuisance—hot wind hitting hot skin. But then the Pathan was blasted by scorching winds carrying millions of shards of sand, tearing at his eyes and nose. He tried in vain to tie his turban over his face, but it was too late. He could no longer see. Wetness formed under his nose and ears. The blood did not run, for he was so lacking in body water that it congealed almost instantly. The wind continued its assault, now a full sandstorm enveloping the Pathan. He could see nothing, but grains carried by the shifting winds. He crawled into a foetal position, struggling to cover his head in cloth, but almost as soon as the storm started, it finished. The winds were no more.

The Pathan arose, coughing out sand, his face bloodied. An oasis stood before him, an impossible pool of water, clear and bright, a mirror to the sky. Around it were trees of all varieties; robust date and coconut trees, mango shrubs barely taller than him, carrying bountiful, ripe fruits, ready to be plucked by hands.

“God is great,” muttered the Pathan, approaching the place. He walked under the date trees, and for the first time in a long time, he received respite from the heat. He sat in the shade of the great leaves, in shadows of bliss and serenity. After a few moments, he rose and plucked a handful of dates from the tree. He rolled the yellow fruits between his fingers, their waxy skin soft and pleasant against his cracked skin. He moved to the edge of the pool and sat down, the cool breeze serenading him. The Pathan waded his hand through the water, the chill radiating through him, soothing his flesh and soul. He cupped the same hand and scooped the water to his face. He closed his eyes, bringing the water to his parched, crusty lips. He gulped and spat it out immediately. A heavy taste of iron and salt repulsed him. The Pathan gagged heavily, choking on the thick liquid that ran red down his chin. He heaved and spat on the ground again and again and again. The dates in his other hand began to wiggle, becoming maggots and cockroaches; their wretched forms bursting out of the yellow flesh. He threw them to the ground, stomping them violently into the sand.

He now stood in a deep crimson pool. Severed arms and legs and torsos bobbed up and down in the gory pond; bone, muscle, limbs, and corpses. The Pathan hyperventilated as the trees turned black. The hanging fruits transformed to rotting flesh swarmed by flies, their incessant buzzing drilling into his eardrums, worms and grubs crawled in and out of their fleshy burrows.

The skull on the Pathan’s belt started to rattle. He took it in his hands and a viper slithered between its eye sockets before it retreated into its brain cavity. The Pathan screamed, throwing it on the ground. He kicked it, screamed again, and scrunched his eyes shut.

The Pathan opened his eyes after a few seconds. He saw nothing but an all-encompassing black void. He shuffled around, trying desperately to find traces of the trees and pool that had been there, the taste of salt and iron still in his throat. The cool that, a moment ago, had been a relief, had twisted into a biting chill, slicing his skin and hair in icy malice. The winds began to speak—hushed ugly whispers that remarked of his mortality and predicament.

You are but a man—and all men die.

The Pathan

The sun disappeared; no moon emerged to take its place. Instead, an obsidian cloak forced itself on to the world, distorting the earth it displaced. The whispers became screams. The Pathan’s ears oozed blood as the never-ending screeches of torment thundered through his sanity, stabbing like an ice pick.

Then all became silent.

She appeared on the horizon, her twisted, demented figure creaked and cracked its way to him. He saw her and rose to his feet. All pain and trauma left his body instantly. He leapt to position, loading the final round into the chamber of the pistol. His hand squeezed the stock, the cold metal now burning his hand. He did not care and could not feel. He raised his thumb and pulled down the hammer, aiming directly at her head. His finger squeezed.

A thundering crack shattered the silence. A flash of orange tore through the abyss.

The woman still advanced. Unfettered. Undeterred. Unwavering.

He could see her limbs twist, convulsing through her robes, her ivory skin protruding through parts of her black burqa, her bones splintering through rancid flesh. Her raspy call became audible, each breath resonating a thousand times between his ears. Her green eyes burned his soul, balls of smokeless fire singeing themselves into his being. He stood in silence, his arm grew limp, and the pistol slipped from his fingers.

She continued towards him, and he was powerless to resist her. His arms were stone, unmoving at his side. The Pathan’s legs were petrified, frozen like a sculpture of ice. His mouth gaped; his breath, a pale smoke wafting before his face.

The air performed a macabre dance around the approaching figure. Her auburn hair waded through the black night, her ruby lips uttering ancient curses, her eyes fixated on the object of despair. She approached with dilated pupils, a kind of ethereal glow above her so that every ghastly and visceral detail of her wretched state was apparent to him. The Pathan’s eyes were forced into place by some unknown force. There before him was a testament to his sins. There before him stood the living, or dead, or undead canvas upon which the art of war had been expressed. There before him stood the manifestation of his desires and actions. And it stared back at him, her eyes perfectly parallel with his, the two seeing each other candidly. The Pathan saw a hurt soul, a humiliated soul, a soul that desired vengeance. And she saw fear.

They said and did nothing for what seemed like forever until the Pathan let out a sharp breath and reached for his belt. He took the head with the nonexistent eyes—the trophy—between his palms. He turned the thing around, knelt on one knee, his eyes fixated on her, and raised the grisly thing. She continued to walk, each crack in her bones piercing through the void until she was but three steps ahead of him. And she stopped. She looked at him and his offering and shot out her white arms, the sleeves of her burqa rolled up. She grabbed the head and examined it. He didn’t know what she was doing with it, but she seemed to remember at least a few things about what it was. She gently caressed its decayed features, then threw it behind her into the nothingness. The Pathan grabbed his bayonet, holding it ahead of him with two hands, shivering and shuddering with every laboured breath.

She stepped towards him.

Crunch again. Crack again.

She was there.

The Pathan lunged forward, but she caught his arm in an icy grip. He screamed and let go of the knife. She squeezed his arm, which seared from the freeze of her touch. He continued to wail, trying desperately to pry himself from her grip with his other hand, but it was no use. Her jagged fingernails pierced his flesh, hoisting her prey into place. Blood emerged, but he was so devoid of liquid that it coagulated into a crimson gelatine mess. His eyes widened at the torn state of his arm. He wanted to scream again, but his neck throbbed in pain. Each ululation felt like a thousand knives in his throat. He convulsed, and again tried to pry her grip from him, but she did not waver, instead she took his throat in her other hand and dug into his sun-cracked flesh. She pulled his head down as he flailed in fruitless resistance, bringing him closer. He was taken to his knees, and she kneeled down too, having his face in both of her hands. He felt the ice pierce through his cheeks and his skull chatter within her grip.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, and she let go of his face, moving her arms and hands down to his waist to embrace him, pressing her head against his chest. Then she began to weep and wail, but without sound. Then, a stifled cry followed by an audible inhale, her tears wet on his body. He brought his hands down to the back of her head and across her shoulder, and with all the strength he could muster, uttered a quiet ‘shush’.

She pulled away from him and again looked at his face. For what seemed like an eternity, the two did only that. He became lost in the somber beauty of her eyes, those precious stones becoming enticing snares. He was astounded by her shapely lips, the plumpness of cherry curves. The definition of her jaw and the rise in her cheekbones humbled him. Her neck was so delicate, so precious. The throbbing gash seemed to accentuate the enchanting fragility of her throat. He knew it was not the first time he had fallen in love with her. He remembered how he had taken her beauty in his hands before, trying to dispose of it when he was finished with it. And now she was here. She had returned and there was no disposing of her now. There she stood, all her features and beauty somehow so apparent despite the black stage surrounding them. And there she stood, bearing the consequences of his desire for them.

She took his head in her hands once more, gently caressing him, her coarse broken fingers striking each thick strand of black hair. She wept again. He sat motionless, listening as each tear conveyed part of a short story of hardship, grief, and violence in which he was the most pivotal character.

But he was not moved. He knew in his heart that he acted in accordance with the law of the conqueror and so he lowered his gaze to look into nothing and he thought nothing of the consequences of his previous actions, beyond the fact that he was now the conquered, and whatever happened now was merely the final act of worship to war. To live by the sword was to die by the sword, and he had danced upon its edge since before he could walk.

The woman forced her fingers into the Pathan’s mouth, tearing through his crusty lips, slicing his gums. He tried to bite them in resistance but lost all strength. She grabbed onto his lower jaw, hooking her digits under his teeth, pulling and burrowing through his dental roots. Puddles of viscera pooled through the gory holes in his face. She pulled down, loud cracks piercing the silence until his jaw came off. A bloody mess of mandible and flesh in her hands. She swung it into his skull, a loud crack thundering louder than any pistol. She did it again and again and again until he fell over and there was nothing left of his face but a ruined coagulation of brain, sinew, organs, and a single eyeball amongst the carnage.

The Lone Survivor

The Bugti began to feel his feet, agony across a million nerves, each synapse-marked pain more intense than the last. Escaping from here would entail potential amputation of both feet, but the more immediate question related to leaving this place first.

He hoisted himself off of his rock, his arms, two blackened swings. He threw himself up and crumpled into the sands’ unrelenting furnace, each grain aflame. He couldn’t move and lay grunting, roasting alive. He finally forced himself upright and tore off his tunic, which he placed beneath him. The blood from his gashes solidified like a gory cement around his feet and legs, but he still could not move them.

The Bugti took the brass pin from his trousers, using all his might to pry apart the sleeves from his tunic. He wrapped them around his feet, the white cotton becoming carmine stained bandages. He put his elbows on the rock, heaving in pain as he lifted himself, trying to walk. He stumbled a few steps and then stood motionless, panting and cursing. His head ached, his kidneys and liver were also in pain. His vision went in and out of black before he fell to the ground. When he came to again, the beige dunes and blue sky somehow merged into the sandy horizon. He sat up with his legs crossed, falling in and out of consciousness; his insides writhing from its lack of nourishment.

Some time later, the sun set, and the moon rose; their celestial lights intersected into a magenta sky with yellow accents and orange highlights. But all this was lost on the Bugti, who could no longer distinguish the hues. All he knew was that night was coming, and with that came the cold, and he was without a shirt. He contemplated whether it would be better to die of dehydration, of exposure to the icy winds, or to simply split open his arteries.

After some time, the Bugti held the pin in his hand tightly, his fingers trembling as the world turned black. He stabbed into his wrists and closed his eyes, and slowly drifted away into the realm of dreams.

He saw a black ram with twisted, knobby horns. Its sides were bare of wool and skin. Instead, it bore red, tender flesh, marbled with whirls of pink fat. It sat in silence as a small flock of carrion birds flew around it, cawing at each other as they flew atop the creature. They pecked at its sides alternately before flying off. The Bugti looked to the right, where he saw a mountain of dead lambs, each white and pristine, save for their eyes and tongues that were removed with surgical precision. Each had a cavity in their chests from where their lungs had been pulled out.

He approached the corpses and felt around them; fresh blood covered his fingers. Then each of the heads on the mountain of death twisted to face him and bleated. Slowly at first—meekly. The bleating gradually raised in tempo and volume until the Bugti could hear nothing but the desperate pleas of the savaged animals, each call like ghastly talons clawing at his eardrums.

The Bugti opened his eyes, his breathing heavy, and his brow thick with sweat. His fingers were wet and though he did not know where the liquid had come from or what it was, his parched tongue greedily lapped at it. There was nothing before him but the silhouettes of the dunes now made black and purple under the ethereal shade of the moon and the stars.

He examined his wrists and saw how the blood immediately congealed on exit. He sighed in both frustration and relief, realising that one of his three grisly options was not possible given his condition. He raised himself off the remains of his tunic and slid it back over him. He tried to walk and advance, slowly and steadily, until he realised that the air had gone from cold to a searing freeze that bit his exposed flesh. There were no more silhouettes, no celestial bodies. In fact, he could not even tell where the earth ended and the sky began. There began the subtle chorus of the winds, their harrowing notes delivering their song of despair. He knew what was going to happen. He knew what had to happen.

From the void came the woman, her burqa tattered, her face as battered as he had remembered. As she staggered towards him, he tried to get up, and for a second, he did. He hobbled a few steps on shredded feet before tumbling down into a loud thud. He smacked into inky, invisible ground. Flat on his rear, he tried to crawl backwards on the palms of his hands, barely dragging the rest of his body with him. He heaved as she came closer, knowing his retreat could not save him. He became a pathetic grovel in the face of her methodical pursuit. She cornered him like the disloyal dog he knew he was. A raspy breath exhaled through her mouth, her gash pulsing a demented beat, a monotonous pounding juxtaposed by the screeching winds.

When she was a few feet away, all went silent. For there were just the two of them in that moment, an enclave of spite hidden from all else. The two stared at each other, anticipating what the other would do.

“Tell me, dear,” the Bugti said in Baluchi, his voice tense. “Why have you come here? Why have you come for me?”

She stood in silence, but the gash in her throat spoke, pulsating and undulating with each breath. Her face stood fixated on his, holding a judgmental scowl.

“I’m an innocent man. I did you no wrong.”

The plea fell on deaf ears; her face remained unchanged as she inched closer on broken ankles and toes.

He ceased crawling backwards, the futility of escape now clear. “Leave me be. Return to the desert.”

But she did not leave him, and she did not return to anything. She stood—tall and firm.

“I have a wife, dear. You would not make her a widow, would you?”

She continued.

“I have children. You would not make them orphans. Would you?”

She continued.

As the woman approached, the Bugti crossed one arm around his face and stuck his other in front of him to defend the attack. She grabbed the outstretched limb in her jagged claws and pulled, long gashes being torn through his sun-jerkied arm. He screeched in pain, pulling his body backwards, trying to free his arm, but as he retreated, her nails deepened within him until they cut through capillaries and veins.

She pulled, and he came tumbling towards her feet. She finally released him. He grovelled before her, whimpering in pain and fear. But there was no use. She descended to her knees, forcibly hooking her fingers into his sides, and hoisted him to his feet. The Bugti screamed in anguish. She then felt around his bare chest until her freezing fingertips happened upon his centre. She gently tapped and then dug at the ribs until she burrowed into his chest cavity. The man howled a primal scream. Once she grasped a pair of ribs, she pulled outwards until they snapped and shattered through the other side of his body. She then dug deeper, grabbing hold of a throbbing organ and pulled it out. The man’s last conscious moment was the vision of the woman holding his beating heart.

The Bugti slumped to the ground, his cavernous wound leaking heaps of gore.

In the End

In the end, Marri country was never conquered by the Company, nor the Empire after it. Kearney’s men were defeated as they marched on Kahan. It became a boast that the Marri alone, among the Rajas of India and Khans of Afghanistan, defeated the British and the Indians in battle. Soon after, the White man would lose Kabul as Afghan warriors crushed their imperial ambitions beneath their boots in the snows of Hindu Kush.

This story of the sands and mountains and plains repeated time and time again, the essence of man etched into the fabric of the landscape through abandoned castles, tents, and towns. But people remain, as they always have and always will. The impression of ancestors recent and long gone embedded into the genetic and cultural legacy of a nomad girl, their features carved into her face, their stories, fears, hopes, and aspiration inscribed into her consciousness. They manifest in her memory as she tends to her father, her mother, and camels in a small encampment where strangers arrive, beg as guests, having their true nature unknown, yet the duty of hospitality is incumbent upon them. This has happened a million times before, and it will happen a million times again.

---

Mir Aziz's novella was the first selected for the Presence collection, celebrated for its rich dive into history, culture, philosophy, and terror. Having been captivated by history and folklore since childhood, Mir Aziz often writes horror—or horror-adjacent—stories that intertwine these themes. Deeply drawn to the mythology of his ancestral highlands in Pakistan, he seeks to use history and the supernatural as a lens to explore the region's traumas, both past and present.

In his spare time, Aziz enjoys wandering through new locations, whether rural or urban, reflecting on their often grim histories and imagining how to weave them into ghost stories. When he’s not writing, you’ll likely find him exploring new cafés around London.

(Stock photos such as this are used for authors like Aziz who prefer anonymity.)