One for The Underworld

An old man has recently lost his friend, and has now one last mission to accomplish for him. The story is set in an Afghan village and reflects local traditions and beliefs.

ONE FOR THE UNDERWORLD

A shabby gate opened and light lit through; following, an old humpbacked man came out, holding a lantern that trembled and clacked. The mid-fall wind gusted cold, winding his turban’s flap on his craggy face that was wet and glittered behind the lantern. He halted and, straightening his crooked back somewhat, peered up over a tall mud wall. The sky was dark and starry. ‘Will be there timely,’ he thought; ‘it’s far and humpy to the graveyard, though.’ And drew the gate shut and laid the hand on his back and walked off. Beneath, gravels rattled; behind, a large figure danced over the walls.

At length he came by a brink and was tired and stopped. A tall house ran down the steep. He supported of the wall and downed the lantern and tumbled aground. Beside him, his shadow stretched and rippled over the wall and faded out in the dark.

‘Already done for, old man,’ he said, ‘already done for,’ looking blankly in the distance. Far away, houses silhouetted against stars. Moments passed by, him gazing afar. By and by his attention drifted: across the river, through the plains, into the graveyard. The air now wafted, now it whooshed, wrapping his face in his turban’s flap and him, back to his senses, sweeping it off his face. His ankles and knees ached unkindly and he sat on and thought: ‘Will be there timely,’ and pushed his skullcap up and scratched his damp, bald pate. Dogs traded barks in the dark. Then he set his turban right and, his back bent, peered up. Over the horizon hang a fine crescent. ‘Magnificent!’ he uttered, staring at the crescent, and saw the whole moon lit dimly of its own light. ‘So lonely . . .’ he thought, ‘yet so unwavering . . . How stately!’ The wind rippled the flare behind the windscreen. ‘It’ll die out soon,’ he thought, of the crescent first for it was very thin, then of himself and was whelmed with fear.

A well-meaning herdsman, he prayed in congregations and had listened to countless stories of heavens and was terrified of grave. He lived alone with his wife and his son, and he had but one friend whom he held dearest, and his friend had been entombed the day before and his heart wept in grief. ‘God’s mercy be upon him,’ he prayed, and decided: ‘Better move on, or I’ll make him wait,’ and forced his hands against the ground and uttered ‘bismillah’ and got to his feet and picked up the lantern and began to descend.

It was dark downhill and on he moved slowly, propelling his left foot sidelong then drawing the right then again the left and so on. The steep wasn’t sheer and he had his hand against his knee and his kyphosis went fine and the light lit all right. ‘Beware of loose rocks, old man’ he thought. ‘You never know how you tumble . . . and it ain’t of use to once you tumble,’ telling him as he advanced. The air was blowing against the light’s windscreen. When he was halfway down, he began sidestepping loose rocks without noticing it fully, then at all. And was now fancying first night in grave. Him lying bare in dark and angels flying down with iron bludgeons to try his faith and toxic beasties crawling him over and the walls coming closer and closer. Watching it all in terror, he stepped on a rock that was loose and the rock rolled off from under and ditched his feet high and dry. ‘. . . Crack!’ and it went all dark.

Flat he laid awhile, gathering what went off. His shoulder was hurting bad. ‘Ouch!’ he cried as he rose up and sat, and groped for his turban; to no avail--it was black all around. ‘Curse unto the devil,’ he growled, so loudly he feared lest he should have woken somebody, and began working his wounds. Soon his eyes adjusted to seeing in starlight. Hither and thither, he found his turban and his lantern, muddled and dead. He reached stiffly for the turban and picked it up and dressed it.  ‘Curse unto the devil,’ he growled. Then stood up, heeding the glass fragments, and lifted the dead lantern. Across the river, the silhouette of a minaret with megaphones sticking out of it was hardly noticeable. He dusted his clothes and clambered down along the tall house.

And safe he came down. The steep ended curving flat then curved somewhat upward then a river cut it along, forming a heap that gradually shrank leftward into a tip. The house’s wall cornered left along the riverbed. The bed was dry, now and all year long, apart from once or twice in spring when mountain snow melted. The wind was gusting cold. He turned left round the house then right round the tip, and was now tramping in riverbed gravels. Behind the riverside, it was warmer without blows of wind. Now and then his shoulder hurt bad and formed furrows on his face. ‘Curse unto the devil, for he robbed me of my attention.’ Beneath, gravels had tired his feet and knees and ankles hurt. He tramped on. Far away, dogs traded barks between brief breaks. He looked slantwise up and the riverside was too high to see over and he saw the sky was dark. Then glimpsed left across the river; the steep ran up with shrouding homes and the mosque shone of a very dark white. And he tramped on.

Some hundred yards through, he caught sight of a flight of stairs dented into the riverside. He crossed the river and the stairs were battered and slippery. And shouldered his lantern and placed his hand and his foot on, uttering ‘bismillah,’ and pulled him arduously up and began shifting limbs sideways, once, and twice, and thrice, his lantern clanking and his shoulder hurting, then over crawled and sat and gasped for air. ‘Oh, god,’ he sighed, listlessly, and panted on. A chilling wind blew on his face. Later, he discharged his shoulder and it hurt. ‘You done for, old man,’ he thought, looking blankly around. Mud houses shrouded along the steep, apart from a broad passageway before him. Left to the passageway, the mosque appeared sky-high from beneath and megaphones stuck out of the minaret and the wall ran the steep all the way up. ‘Morning ain’t far. Can’t waste a sec,’ he thought, then stiffly stood and lift the lantern and walked up.

The steep was sheer; the ascension burned the old man. Hands resting on knees and eyes darkening and breast panting and knees and ankles tremoring of sheer pain he halted by the rocks. The rocks were smooth and lined the brick as it broke into a flat lane. ‘Oh, God!’ he lamented and tumbled onto a rock, his head dizzy and drooped, and breathed, and breathed and swallowed and breathed, until panting and tremoring eased. ‘Oh, God!’ he bewailed, his voice grown pitiful, ‘how frail I become,’ and saw his arms were shaking and veins jutting out under his gaunt skin and deep wrinkles running therein and saw his legs were shaking too and he felt miserable. ‘Look how old you grown,’ he thought, sadly watching signs of the ceaseless change and portents of the coming end. ‘God,’ he spoke, deploringly, watching up, ‘forgive me my sins,’ and his gorge filled with grief.

For a time he looked blankly into the sky. Then turned eastward and found the sky slightly grey. ‘Late, you old gaffer!’ he growled, disconcertedly, and, hiring his rock seat, he push him up and pull him back and revolve on the rump to bring his legs over. His legs were stiff and still hurt and painfully and sternly he got up and lifted the dead lantern and walked into the narrow lane, his hand laying on his crooked back.

The lane opened into a deserted plain. Far ahead stood an exorbitant mountain, the highest of a series that ran halfway round the village and the old man delighted in watching it moonlit from top of his roof. Presently it was dark and he could hardly perceive the cluster of graves below the mountainside. Here and there across the plain were spotted ruins of onetime habitats; ceilings collapsed inside and walls eroded into columns and ghostly erect and entrances irrelevant--any emphasis on the ephemerality of those dwellings would be to no avail; and the old man marched through. Once the plains behind, he came across an amorphous rock that headstoned a mound of hardened earth; before him spread graves of any sort, lean and massy, stoned and stone-less, all directing to alike angle and some having their stones sporting white or green materials that flapped in the wind. He took turns right and left walking through the graves and came by an astoundingly huge tomb. A curvy length of log wrapped in a green material stuck in a heap of rocks attached to the tomb. Round the tomb were bricks and on top spread white gravels. He reached for the log and stroke his hand over the green material and then over his forehead, saying something in his lips, and then marched on. At length he came by a mound of fresh earth that had a headstone at either side and a new white stripe ran between the stones, and he walked west where his friend’s head laid.

And he stared down. A breeze caressed the grave. Staring on blankly he watched lifetime memories of togetherness; and remembered when an evening his friend told him a joke about the shoemaker and burst into laughter (and the old man grinned) . . . when by the brook they were eating watermelon and worrying about rainfall shortage . . .  when his friend laid on sickbed quietly weeping his pain . . . when a nice morning the ultimate news broke; and tears gathered in his eyes. While his mournful heart reminisced, his vitiated frame sat absently down. He stroked the headstone ruefully and heaved a wishful sigh--that things could go just a little back for him to be there in those last moments, to tell him a joke and make him laugh and watch him laughing one last time and tell him how dear he holds him; and tears rolled down his eyes. ‘My beloved friend,’ he wailed and burst into sobbing and wept. And on he wept and cried, till he became feeble.

The east horizon had grown grey. A call of azan broke in from across the plain. He lifted his head and peered at where the sound came and swept over his face and saw the tip of the minaret then murmured: ‘All praise to the Almighty.’ Then turned eastward and saw the skyline was grey. ‘He is waiting,’ he said, ‘he awaits the good news,’ and grabbed a nearby rock and knocked on the headstone and drew his head close and said, loudly: ‘It’s morning, Hussain, my friend, it’s morning; night is over.’ Again he knocked and shouted, then threw the rock and sat awhile by the grave. When at last he set to get to his feet his legs had gone stiff and so he remained aground. Behind him on the green-wrapped log a sparrow landed and began chirping.

Author's Note

This is my second short story ever written. Please, general feedback.

Reviews

[UncleFossil]

The second short story you've ever done; and coming all the way from Afghanistan this is a unique view and insight those might not even have access to even during a history comparable to the Nam conflict my uncles served in. I suggest trying to get some visuals for it to give it some nuances; this is coming from someone who has an old-world Europe last name and grew up in the New World.