across the valley. Soon, the old man could see someone approaching, Aquil-eh, his great-great-nephew, then others behind.
“No!” screamed Aquil-eh as he sprinted up the stalk line. “What is it? Who has done this to you?”
Aquil-eh made it to the old man, then grabbed him, lifting him in his arms and laying him on the ground.
The old man shook his head.
“Leave me,” the old man whispered. “Arra. She’s in trouble.”
By now nearly a dozen farmers stood behind Aquil-eh. A large man with a beard and mustache stepped forward, his eyes bulging. His name was Tok. At the words from the old man, he pushed the others aside and sprinted in a crazed dash up the path toward the village.
The fields emptied as the farmers poured into the pathway. One of the men rang a small iron bell at the beginning of the steppe. At this hour, that would bring the others, the yak herders as well, knowing that the bell meant that something was wrong.
Tok ran up the crooked gravel path, his arms flailing at his sides. Soon he rounded the steppe shift and was on the village road. The others, now more than two dozen, followed, running in a frenzy. Dust was thrown up by the tumult of footsteps.
Across from the small café, the men ran past the dead dog, lying now in a pool of its own blood. Tok reached the door to the café, followed by the throng.
Everyone in the small village of Yagulung knew Arra. Many were related to her. Tok, the large man who now grabbed the latch to the wooden door, was her father.
He pulled the door open. To the left, a young Pakistani soldier, helmet on the table in front of him, calmly ate a plate of corn mash. On the ground, the other soldier was on top of Arra, raping her.
Tok reached the marauder, slamming a hard fist down atop his head. He knocked the soldier off of his daughter, knocked him down to the dirt floor, then set upon him. Tok, despite being a peasant farmer, was a brick shithouse of a man, his arms strong from decades of hard labor in the fields. He set on the soldier and began to hit him furiously, pounding away at his head from above.
Arra covered herself, running into the back room.
The other Pakistani soldier barked out at the gathering horde of villagers, but it was no use. Another man, carrying a large rock, stood above the soldier and raised the rock above his head.
“ Stop! ” the other Pakistani soldier yelled again. He fired the Kalashnikov. The rifle cracked. A slug tore through the man’s chest as he held the rock, knocking him off his feet and backwards. Blood splattered in a red gob across the wall of the café. The villager careened into a small wooden table near the iron stove, dead instantly, blood everywhere.
But if the shot was intended to still the farmers now crowded into the small café, it did just the opposite. Another peasant, who had also armed himself with a rock, hurled it at the Kalashnikov-wielding soldier. The stone struck him in the head, at the top of his right cheekbone, hard enough to knock him backwards. Two other farmers leapt at the soldier and wrestled him to the ground. They were soon pounding viciously at the soldier.
Within minutes, the faces of the Pakistani soldiers would not have been recognizable by even their own mothers. The villagers unleashed themselves upon the soldiers in a fury, hitting and kicking their corpses long after they were dead.
Eventually, from the back room, the young woman, Arra, appeared. Tears covered her cheeks as she stepped into the ruined room. Blood was everywhere. The villagers swarmed like locusts. Men she’d grown up with, her father, brothers, uncles, friends; they hovered over the soldiers they’d just killed, their hands covered in blood.
“ Stop! ” she implored. She looked at her father, who knelt on the ground over one of the dead soldiers. His fists were coated in blood.
The room fell silent. Finally, from the back of the small café, a voice interrupted the silence.
“Pakistan will wonder where
“No!” screamed Aquil-eh as he sprinted up the stalk line. “What is it? Who has done this to you?”
Aquil-eh made it to the old man, then grabbed him, lifting him in his arms and laying him on the ground.
The old man shook his head.
“Leave me,” the old man whispered. “Arra. She’s in trouble.”
By now nearly a dozen farmers stood behind Aquil-eh. A large man with a beard and mustache stepped forward, his eyes bulging. His name was Tok. At the words from the old man, he pushed the others aside and sprinted in a crazed dash up the path toward the village.
The fields emptied as the farmers poured into the pathway. One of the men rang a small iron bell at the beginning of the steppe. At this hour, that would bring the others, the yak herders as well, knowing that the bell meant that something was wrong.
Tok ran up the crooked gravel path, his arms flailing at his sides. Soon he rounded the steppe shift and was on the village road. The others, now more than two dozen, followed, running in a frenzy. Dust was thrown up by the tumult of footsteps.
Across from the small café, the men ran past the dead dog, lying now in a pool of its own blood. Tok reached the door to the café, followed by the throng.
Everyone in the small village of Yagulung knew Arra. Many were related to her. Tok, the large man who now grabbed the latch to the wooden door, was her father.
He pulled the door open. To the left, a young Pakistani soldier, helmet on the table in front of him, calmly ate a plate of corn mash. On the ground, the other soldier was on top of Arra, raping her.
Tok reached the marauder, slamming a hard fist down atop his head. He knocked the soldier off of his daughter, knocked him down to the dirt floor, then set upon him. Tok, despite being a peasant farmer, was a brick shithouse of a man, his arms strong from decades of hard labor in the fields. He set on the soldier and began to hit him furiously, pounding away at his head from above.
Arra covered herself, running into the back room.
The other Pakistani soldier barked out at the gathering horde of villagers, but it was no use. Another man, carrying a large rock, stood above the soldier and raised the rock above his head.
“ Stop! ” the other Pakistani soldier yelled again. He fired the Kalashnikov. The rifle cracked. A slug tore through the man’s chest as he held the rock, knocking him off his feet and backwards. Blood splattered in a red gob across the wall of the café. The villager careened into a small wooden table near the iron stove, dead instantly, blood everywhere.
But if the shot was intended to still the farmers now crowded into the small café, it did just the opposite. Another peasant, who had also armed himself with a rock, hurled it at the Kalashnikov-wielding soldier. The stone struck him in the head, at the top of his right cheekbone, hard enough to knock him backwards. Two other farmers leapt at the soldier and wrestled him to the ground. They were soon pounding viciously at the soldier.
Within minutes, the faces of the Pakistani soldiers would not have been recognizable by even their own mothers. The villagers unleashed themselves upon the soldiers in a fury, hitting and kicking their corpses long after they were dead.
Eventually, from the back room, the young woman, Arra, appeared. Tears covered her cheeks as she stepped into the ruined room. Blood was everywhere. The villagers swarmed like locusts. Men she’d grown up with, her father, brothers, uncles, friends; they hovered over the soldiers they’d just killed, their hands covered in blood.
“ Stop! ” she implored. She looked at her father, who knelt on the ground over one of the dead soldiers. His fists were coated in blood.
The room fell silent. Finally, from the back of the small café, a voice interrupted the silence.
“Pakistan will wonder where
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