The Man of the Valley
by Yaquob Burney
The northern wind, buffering against the old man’s form, is enough to send the average man into a fit of shivers. But Mustafa Hayan Tarakai is not your average man. Resolute like the mountains he was raised in, he doesn’t even flinch as the wind whips past him. He stares off into the distance, his pale green eyes vacant as his mind wanders, the distant sound of his grandchildren playing, now mere ambience to the old man. His mind wanders, to a time long, long ago, when the valley was far less peaceful. His face blank, Mustafa turns to his small villa, nestled away in the middle of the valley. It’s not far from the nearby village, close enough for supplies and maintenance, but far enough to provide the old man with solitude. Human interaction tires him, after all. Save his grandson and daughter-in-law. The boy did have his late father’s face. At that thought, Mustafa lets a sad, small smile creep across his stony face, as he takes a step back, back in the direction of his house.
While it’s a large house, it’s quite frugal, painted a simple tan, windows barred and the structure itself surrounded by a wall. A winding cobble path leads up, across a small ditch, to a gate, leading into the abode. Taking a deep breath of the crisp, cold morning air, Mustafa stretches out his arms, yawning. Suddenly, he freezes, the sounds of a tree being cut down in the distance drawing him in, the distant “chop, chop” reminding him of distant gunfire. It’s quiet, this morning, like many mornings in the mountains these days, but in Mustafa’s mind, the valley is now very much alive with noise, noise that was once a reality a long, long time ago. Mustafa shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, he is still in the valley, but he is now much younger—in his youth, a gun in hand.
A crescendo of 7.62×39mm ammunition cuts through the valley, whizzing past Mustafa’s head. The pianissimo of men’s last calls for help fades away in Mustafa’s eardrums, drowned out by an almighty fortissimo of rocket-propelled grenades detonating. Young Mustafa feels his legs shake, as he is lifted off the ground by an explosion, shaken to the very core. Mustafa rises even as he falls, shaking his head, his finger tightening on the trigger of his weapon, and then-
“Grandfather, Grandfather!”
Mustafa feels a small hand tug at his shalwar kameez, as he is pulled out of the memories of the battlefield of youth. He turns around, looking down at the small boy looking up at him. Mustafa feels his face breaking into a smile, as he ruffles his grandson’s hair.
“What is it, Ismael? Does your mother need something?”
Ismael shakes his head. “No, Dada, my ball.” He wriggles away from Mustafa’s hand, turning to the villa and pointing to where a ditch, with a plank across, is gouged into the valley’s landscape. “My soccer ball, it’s in the big ditch!” Ismael shouts, jumping up and down impatiently.
Mustafa chuckles, nodding at the boy, giving his hair a last ruffle, and then saunters over to the ditch in the front of his house. He pauses at the edge, thinking back to the man who built his house, who had offered to fill the ditch after rebuilding the villa. Mustafa had promptly refused the offer with a laugh. Too many memories associated with this cut in the otherwise flat landscape. Mustafa takes a slight breath before hopping down into the ditch, after his grandson's lost soccer ball. He deftly lands with a slight grunt, turning to the trench-like walls, his bony fingers tracing a line in the sandy walls. Mustafa had been ten years older than his grandson, when battles had raged across this mountain range. There weren’t enough words in Mustafa’s mind to express his relief that his grandson would never have to grow up in the world that he had been raised in.
His grandson would never have to crouch in the ditch; never would he have to load round after round into a clip, and pop up from behind cover to fire round after round down the valley. His grandson would never see his brother, his face taut in a snarl, laying down suppressive fire and keeping the invaders back with his RPK machine gun. Mustafa closes his eyes yet again, his hand curling around the dirt of the trench, as his memories slowly come creeping back to him. As he makes a fist around the dirt of the trench, he feels cold steel. A shell casing. There are still shells that remained here, spent from his rifle, when he had crouched here with his father and older brother.
When he opens his eyes, his brother is by his side yet again, standing resolutely by Mustafa, gun in hand. The two brothers never take one step back from the trench, not when bullets whiz past their heads, not when grenades peppered the two with dirt. Not until a single rifle crack, louder in Mustafa’s young ears than all sound, cuts through the symphony of battle, sending his older brother careening back into the trench. His brother’s face is a final visage of surprise, a neat hole drilled into his forehead. Mustafa doesn’t pause to weep. Mustafa can not weep. Who will protect his brother’s body, lying motionless beside their father, who had fallen hours before?
A small cloud of dust, blown into the trench by a slight breeze shakes Mustafa out of his vision, blowing into his eyes and mouth, sending him into a fit of coughs. Wiping his eyes, and grabbing the soccer ball, he stands, intending to return to his undoubtedly impatient grandson. But as he stands, something catches his eye. He can see a group of shepherds, walking across the flat plateau of the mountains that flank the valley in which Mustafa’s villa lies. And yet again Mustafa remembers, when the sight of men on the ridgeline had set his heart to beating in his chest like a rat struggling to free itself from a wooden box. He had stared up at the same plateau, from the very same trench, as the sight of men on the ridgeline signaled the coming of reinforcements.
Mustafa’s salvation comes from those reinforcements on that plateau, their coming heralded by a chorus of mortars strikes, as the battalion swarms atop the hills, firing down all through the night at Mustafa’s foes. Mustafa does not take a break from the fighting, only stopping at dawn when he runs out ammo and grenades. The cacophony of gunshots has trickled down to an occasional staccato by now. The battle is won.
Mustafa’s side has won, and his foes lie in the dirt now. But so do his father and brother. Mustafa stumbles out from the trench, covered in the blood of his family, soot, and grime, his eyes wide, his expression black. As a medic rushes forward with an impromptu first aid kit, Mustafa pushes him, using the hand to snatch the fully loaded pistol in the man’s belt. The two stumble, Mustafa’s face now contorted into a snarl. All eyes have now turned to the boy brandishing a gun. No one moves, no one breathes.
And then, a man comes forward. Mustafa’s uncle, dressed in the fatigues of an officer. As he walks towards Mustafa, the men silently step aside. He stands, staring at Mustafa. The two lock eyes and then Mustafa breaks, bowing his head and offering Uncle the gun. The older man glances down at the gun, making no attempt to take the pistol. He glances in the direction of the ditch, then sighs, shaking his head. He takes a knee, still staring at Mustafa.
“Your father didn’t want you to be here, boy. He told me you were still too young, and I agreed. Yet you followed him here, didn’t you? Mustafa nods, too ashamed to meet his Uncle’s gaze. “Here you are, Mustafa, the last man standing. What are you going to do now, boy?”
Mustafa still refuses to lift his head, his gaze fixated on the ground. When he answers, it in a whisper. “I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill them all.”
His uncle says nothing, cocking his head, before gesturing to the men behind him. He reaches forward, clasping Mustafa’s gun hand and lifts it up. He then steps aside. A man kneels, held between two soldiers, covered in crime and blood, missing an ear, tears streaming down his face. ‘It’s not a man, but a boy,’ Mustafa realizes as he points his pistol at his enemy, ‘maybe no more than two or three years older than me… my older brother’s age...’ The hand gripping the pistol shakes. The boy, looks at Mustafa, pleading in his eyes. Mustafa, closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.
“What happened to kill them all, Mustafa?”
Mustafa’s eyes snap open. His breath rages and he clenches the gun in a white-knuckle grip. The captured boy is now crying, pleading, begging Mustafa in his accented tongue to put the weapon away.
“Please, I have Family. Brother, Sister, Mother. Not kill me, please, please...” The prisoner reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small picture, a family photo taken somewhere with snow, with a brother, a sister, and a mother, all smiling. For the second time that day, Mustafa feels his resolve shake. He opens his mouth, for some response, some damnation for the boy they hold prisoner, but he cannot speak, his words caught in his throat.
“I am rear guard, not fight, I not kill your friend. Name, Alexei. I innocent, I innocent…”
Mustafa sees then his brother, in his mind’s eye, lying in the ditch, his face so similar to the prisoner’s. Mustafa tries to tighten the grip of his shaking hands, tries to squeeze the trigger, tries to put a bullet into the sobbing boy, for his family, for his nation for—then a gunshot—yet Mustafa’s weapon is still cold.
Mustafa realizes he is shaking, that he is panting, that tears now are building in his eyes, not yet running down his face. He breathes in a shaky breath, lowering the gun he could not bring himself to fire. He looks at the now silent body of the boy, who will never plead again, never smile with his brother, sister, or mother. He turns his head to his uncle, a smoking gun in the man’s hands. The elder’s face is stone cold, as he slides the gun back into its holster, shaking his head, before raising it to look at Mustafa, a mournful look flitting across his face before it reverts to impassive and emotionless.
“Come on, Mustafa. There’s no more home for you here now. And this war is not yet over. There is a long way to go.” His uncle pauses, glancing back at the trench. “Only the dead have seen the end of the war.”
It is then that Mustafa finally cries, dropping the weapon he holds, and falls to his knees. His tears run with the blood and dirt that carpet the valley. His uncle steps up to him, quiet as ever, stopping to lift him back onto his feet, and the pair walk back to the trench, to the ruins of a house where Mustafa had grown.
A voice, cutting like a knife through butter, pulls Mustafa from his thoughts. “Abu, what are you doing down in the ditch again?”
Mustafa’s head snaps up, and he stares at the two figures standing at the edge of the ditch, the sun shining behind them blinding the old man. For a moment, he sees himself, with his uncle, until he raises his hand to shade his vision. Standing there are his grandson Ismael, next to Mustafa’s daughter-in-law Aisha, a curious look on both of their faces. Young Ismael frowns, tipping his head forward respectfully, his eyes searching for the soccer ball.
“Is everything alright, Grandfather? Did you get my ball?”
Mustafa gives his grandson a small smile, followed by a tired chuckle, and shakes his head.
“Just remembering, my child, just remembering.”
The little boy offers Mustafa a hand, and he laughs, pretending that his grandchild is the one hoisting him up. He takes a moment to dust off his shalwar kameez, and offers the ball to him. He leads his grandson and daughter-in-law to the gate of his villa, opening it, and leading the two inside. Then he stops, halfway through the doorway, before taking one long, last look into at the valley, to a land mixed with the blood, sweat and tears of a child thrown into a man’s world, many years too early. He smiles, feels a tear run down his haggard face.
“Only the dead, have seen the end of the war.”