Spirit of a Mountain Wolf Read Online Free Page B

thank Rebekah, Karl, and Mr. Harish for their kindness. He was practically shoved into the jeep and was soon tearing alongside the Indus River. When he looked back at the mountains, he couldn’t even see where his home had been.

    When they climbed onto the minibus at Oghi, Ikram spoke to the driver as if he knew him. Razaq didn’t see Ikram buy a ticket, and he didn’t feel like pulling out his father’s purse to offer. None of this was his idea; let Ikram pay for him. His only consoling thought was that his father had wanted him to do this, too, and it calmed him a little.
    The bus driver stared at Razaq and winked at Ikram. “Got a good-looker there, yar.”
    Ikram laughed while Razaq scowled and wondered what his looks had to do with anything. His mother said he was a handsome boy, and even though he wasn’t as tall as others his age, she said he soon would be. She always told him to look at a man’s deeds not how tall he was, but all mothers said things like that.
    They sat at the back of the bus, where one man touched Razaq on the cheek and another let his hand rest on his leg. “Khubsurat baccha, beautiful child.”
    “Chup, be quiet,” Ikram said, slapping the man’s hand away. “He’s my nephew.”
    The other men laughed. “How many nephews do you have, Ikram sahib?”
    An old man told them all to shut their mouths. “Shame on you, it is Ramadan. And have a thought for the suffering of the mountain people.”
    One young man muttered, “That is why I am leaving.”
    Razaq had never been in a bus, and his eyes kept straying to the colorful transfers on the windscreen. One was of a black horse in full gallop. There was something like a tarveez hanging from the driver’s mirror. Razaq touched his father’s tarveez under his shirt. He hoped it would protect him better than it had his father, and then instantly felt sorry for thinking such a disloyal thing. The engine revved and the bus drew out of the adda, the terminal. Once it was on the Karakoram Highway, it picked up speed. The tarveez on the mirror swayed every time the bus swerved to miss rocks and potholes. Razaq hoped it was strong enough to protect them from accidents. His gaze slid again to the horse on the window. Would it be like this to ride a horse, he wondered. He had never traveled so fast. At times, his stomach felt as though he had left it back at Oghi.
    At one point, they had to wait while a bulldozer shifted rocks off the road. Razaq relieved himself by the verge. When he stood up, tying his narda, his shalwar cord, he found the bus driver close behind him.
    “Is there any problem?” Razaq asked. The bus driver shrugged his shoulders and gave a sideways glance at Ikram who was smoking nearby. Razaq had the odd feeling Ikram was keeping an eye on him.
    It was midnight when they arrived at a bus adda in Rawalpindi. As they stepped off the bus, the driver said something to Ikram that Razaq didn’t catch. Ikram shook his head and said, “Sorry, Saleem.”
    Razaq hadn’t felt this tired even after the burial of his father. Dust filled his nose and eyes, and the smell of fumes was stifling. It was warmer than the mountains, but Razaq couldn’t see the stars; there was too much light from the street. Even this late, buses were coming and going, conductors calling out their destinations.
    Ikram took him to a small restaurant in the terminal, a little bigger than a booth. Wooden tables and benches stood outside. Inside, there were a few more tables and a TV set switched on for the customers. Razaq couldn’t take his eyes off the people on the screen. A woman was crying, but he knew it wasn’t real, just a play. So this was what Uncle Javaid had described to him.
    Ikram ordered chai and dhal for them both. Razaq was hungry; truly he had fasted long today even though travelers didn’t have to. When the dhal came, Ikram called the owner from the kitchen.
    “Janab,” Ikram said to him, lifting his chin. “Look who I have here.” He