Sunrise: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Ten by Chris Stewart Page B

village, the land sloped gently upward for three or four kilometers before jutting suddenly toward the blue sky at nearly impossible angles. The valley floor was too rocky to be farmed, three hundred thousand years of retreating and advancing glaciers having deposited a couple million boulders and man-sized rocks across the gravely ground. Because the valley floor could not be farmed, the foothills had been heavily terraced, every inch put to use. The lifeblood of the village, the terraces were richly earthed but dry, the villagers having no practical way of pumping the water out of the gushing river up to the higher ground. Electricity hadn’t made it to the village yet. Neither had running water nor doctors or medical services. There were a few automobiles, certainly nothing made in the present century, and donkeys outnumbered trucks or cars by at least twenty-five to one. In most respects, the village hadn’t changed much over the past thousand years. Battles had been fought here. Battles were fought here now. People had lived and died here. People lived and died here now.
    So much the same.
    It was remarkable.
    For more than 2000 years, the Pashtun village had lived through a series of horrors known as invasions from the Aryan tribes, then the Persians, then the Mauryas, Kushans, Greeks, Arabs, and Turks. Partly because of this, but mostly because they lived in a land the modern world had forgotten and didn’t care about, the Pashtuns were the largest segmentary people on the earth, segmentary in that they stood as tribes, with no other form of government to bind them. The best description of their hierarchy was found in the old saying, “brother against brother, brothers against cousins, brothers and cousins against the world.”
    Conservative in their lifestyle and devout in their beliefs, the Pashtuns made fearsome friends and terrifying enemies.
    As Omar stood beside the village leader he wondered, was the village leader a friend or foe?
    *******
     
    The village leader’s hut sat in the corner of the lowest terrace, the only structure allowed to take up such a precious piece of farming ground, perhaps the greatest tribute to his status among the village he could ever hope to achieve. It was very early now, not quite morning light, but not quite dark, the gray light having washed out the stars. The prince hung close to Omar’s side and Omar looked down at him. The boy was larger now, stronger and more confident.
    “Who is he?” the village leader demanded.
    “He is a child.”
    “ Who is he? ”
    “He needs your help.”
    “Who seeks him? Are you his father?”
    “Many forces seek him, and no, I am not his father.”
    The leader studied Omar. “I will not let you bring evil into my village.”
    “I bring no evil. I bring a child.”
    “Evil comes in many faces.”
    “Look at him, Aashir.”
    The leader of the local tribe was young. Life was too hard to leave many old men on the mountain and all village leaders had to be young enough to fight. He was called abbu Rehnuma , or father leader, and that’s exactly what he was; father of his people, leader of their tribe. He studied the boy while pulling on his long beard. He hadn’t shaved in his life; his face never touched a blade. He thought a long moment, then turned around. “Take him away,” he commanded. “He’s not my charge.”
    “Aashir, please, in the name of all that is sure and holy—”
    “He is not my charge!” The young man looked suddenly nervous. “I hear much now, God willing, and I listen. There are foreign forces all around us, and not the devil Americans. No, not from what I hear. These are far more evil, far more dangerous.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “These are the forces of a foreign king; keeper of the Holy Stone, protector of the Shrine.”
    Omar felt a cold chill. “One day of rest is all I’m asking,” he begged. “One day is all I need.”
    The leader scoffed. “I doubt that, my friend Omar, I doubt