The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

father. The wars against the Russians went on and on and some of the tribal chiefs were weakening; they were trading with the Russians, paying taxes and even spying on Shamil himself. Jamaleldin wanted to trust everyone around him. Sometimes, though, he would notice a villager with shifty eyes, an elder with a haughty look and he would wonder if they were the hypocrites. If they were the traitors who had sold their souls to the White Tsar.
    ‘The world is a carcass and the one who goes after it is a dog.’ This was what Sheikh Jamal el-Din taught, and his young namesake repeated it to himself though he was not quite sure what it meant. Long ago, Shamil swore an allegiance to Sheikh Jamal el-Din and became his follower. For years he lived the austere life of a student, learning the Qur’an and how to bow his will, through his spiritual teacher, to the will of Allah. Today after the dawn prayer, the menof Akhulgo and sleepy Jamaleldin too, renewed their oath of allegiance to Imam Shamil. But Shamil himself would remain obedient to Sheikh Jamal el-Din. When father and son had last visited him in his aoul, Jamaleldin had seen his towering father – who could make grown men tremble at the sound of his voice – bow down and kiss the feet of his teacher.
    Jamaleldin continued to fill his basket with stones for the coming battle. He could hear the murids chanting, churning in themselves the spirit to fight: ‘Under the infidel’s supremacy, we would be covered in shame.’ ‘Brother, how can you serve Allah, if you are serving the Russians?’ Then the prayers rising up: ‘Preserve us from regression. Bring us the longed-for end.’ Preserve us from regression. Jamaleldin looked up to see his father’s younger wife Djawarat, carrying his sleeping half-brother on her back and stuffing her pockets with rocks. He liked Djawarat because her face reminded him of a rabbit and because she often gave him tasty fried grain sprinkled with salt. ‘Do you think the Russians will be able to come up here?’ he asked her.
    She looked down at the ground. ‘If only it was winter and the mountains covered in snow. If only, like long, long ago, they fought with swords and not gunfire.’
    But it was June and the Russians had more artillery than they did. Jamaleldin regretted his question.
    ‘It is Allah’s will that we fight,’ continued Djawarat. She straightened up and put her hand on his shoulder. He gazed at her big, attractive teeth, her eyebrows that were high and thick. ‘Jamaleldin, when the Merciful honours a slave with His power, then no other creature can ever humiliate him. This is how it is with your father.’
    They both knew that Shamil was backed by mystical powers – the kind that could make him tame a jackal or bless a handful of millet so that it would feed five men instead of one. Djawarat sat down on the rocks and put her baby on her lap. ‘Remember when he leapt over a line of soldiers who surrounded him …’
    ‘They were just about to fire on him …’ The story was in Jamaleldin’s mind as if he had been present.
    ‘He whirled round and struck two with his sword.’
    ‘Three,’ Jamaleldin corrected her.
    ‘The fourth one hit him but he pulled the bayonet blade from his own shoulder …’
    ‘Jumped over a five-foot wall.’
    ‘Seven,’ Djawarat corrected him.
    ‘In one leap.’
    Djawarat was smiling. She bent down and gave her baby a kiss. ‘No one is like your father, little one.’
    And there was Shamil now, tall and still, as if he had willed himself into this particular place and time. He was dressed for battle in a long cherkesska and a large white turban, the end of which hung down his neck. Two black cartridge pouches crisscrossed his torso and a leather halter held his scimitar. Jamaleldin moved forward to kiss his hand. The familiar warmth emitted from his father, an energy that surfaced in his dark eyes. He lifted Jamaleldin up; it had been a long time since his father had carried him.