Spirit of a Mountain Wolf Read Online Free

mountains.” He had said to always stay in the mountains, so Razaq found it confusing that his father had told him to find his uncle. Had it been death talking or should he act on his father’s last wish?
    At the end of the lesson, Mr. Harish asked Razaq to help him. “The younger boys need to play soccer—to have a time of forgetting.”
    Razaq nodded. He didn’t know how to play, though his uncle had given him a ball once. He’d kicked it around until his father told him it might frighten the goats.
    Mr. Harish divided the boys into two teams. “You take that team,” he said to Razaq. “Just tell them to keep their eye on the ball, and break up any fights.”
    Razaq watched Mr. Harish carefully and did everything the same. “Kick the ball,” he shouted after he’d heard Mr. Harish say it. Razaq even got to kick it himself. Mr. Harish was right: when he and the boys were running after that ball, it was all he could think of. His mind wasn’t filled with images of his bloodied father, of Peepu and his broken horns, his responsibility for Mrs. Daud, and whether he should find his uncle. He just heard the singing of the wind in his ears.
    After the game, he grinned at Mr. Harish. “Accha hai.”
    “Can you say it in English?”
    “It is good,” Razaq said.
    Mr. Harish laid his hand on Razaq’s head. “I am glad for that,” he said, and Razaq recognized the concern in his eyes.
    Being at the Angrez tents made Razaq feel almost carefree, and he went again in the afternoon. Mrs. Daud didn’t seem to care or even understand where he went as long as he brought food. His father would have said to be careful of Angrez people—they were immoral and worshipped three gods—but Karl had told Razaq he worshipped one god, too, so Razaq knew he must be Muslim.
    That evening, after another exhilarating game of soccer, a man approached Razaq. “I saw you playing soccer,” he said. “You’re very good.”
    The man was his uncle’s age, dressed in a clean shalwar qameez, and Razaq stood still in respect.
    “You could get a job in the city playing soccer.”
    Razaq grinned. The man was joking.
    “No, it’s true. Haven’t you seen games on TV?”
    Razaq stayed silent. He had never seen TV, though he’d heard of it, nor did he know what the man’s business was. Men did not stop you on the path to talk about nothing. They visited your father and drank tea and . . . Razaq sighed inwardly. From now on, he had to work things out, make decisions, himself.
    “I could take you to the city. Do you know anyone in Rawalpindi?”
    Razaq looked at the man with more interest. “My uncle lives there.”
    “I might be able to take you to him and get you a job. What can you do here?” The man lifted his arm to encompass the broken village.
    Razaq bit his lip. He needed a job, but there was Mrs. Daud. He couldn’t leave her yet—she still didn’t remember who he was.
    “I will think about this,” Razaq said politely and moved on.
    When he glanced back, the man had taken out a cigarette, and he blew smoke in his direction. Razaq knew then the man wasn’t a good Muslim: no one was supposed to smoke during the Ramadan fast.

Chapter 3
    Razaq continued to help in the Angrez tents. He scrutinized Rebekah, even looked in her eyes, for signs of whoring, but all he saw was the way his mother or Mrs. Daud had looked at him before the earthquake. Rebekah looked at him as if she wanted to adopt him. Wouldn’t a gashtee look at you differently, make you feel something that a wife should make you feel?
    He’d decided in the night not to go to Rawalpindi yet. He may need to stay until a house could be built for Mrs. Daud, or at least until her brother could come to claim her. But not all brothers wanted a widowed sister to feed forever. It was too much to think of right now, and he was being paid by the Angrez in food and clothes for his help with the younger boys. It was enough. So he was troubled to arrive back at Mrs. Daud’s tent