Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

“I am Wajia,” the woman said, hand on her chest. She spoke Pashto, but the gesture made her meaning clear.

“Wajia.” Robyn responded in English. “I am Robyn.”

“Good.” The woman gestured to one of the doorways at the back of the room. “Come with me.”

Wajia pushed through a curtain and led Robyn to another room, half as large as the living room in front. This was a woman’s room, with sleeping mats and wooden chests against the walls. Robyn was surprised to see a back door in one corner. The mountainside was not the back wall of the house, as Robyn had first suspected. Rather, the house had a proper back wall, constructed of logs and stone. There must have been an alley behind the house, leading to communal toilet facilities.

Robyn turned in a slow circle, to take in the room. The woman took off the burqa and laid it on top of one of the chests.

The Pashtun woman turned a knob on a gas lantern. The light pushed the shadows back into the corners. Robyn sucked a breath.

Wajia was thirty, five years older than Robyn. Her hair was long and brown, her eyes a supernatural blue. Freckles dusted her cheeks, a complexion the color of milk chocolate. She had high cheekbones and a wide mouth.

Her dress was overwhelming in its femininity. She wore a firaq, a kind of blouse, with orange and yellow vertical stripes. It was tucked into an orange shalwar... baggy, gathered at her waist and ankles. Her shoes were flat and sensible, with thick rope soles to cope with rocky terrain.

“You’re beautiful,” Robyn said, in English.

Wajia looked puzzled.

Robyn smiled. The smile conveyed what she wanted Wajia to know.

Wajia smiled. She gestured toward clothing stacked on another chest. It had been prepared for Robyn’s arrival. In a corner, on the stone floor, was a basin of water and towels.

“Clean yourself,” Wajia said. She did not expect her Pashto to be understood, but she made motions with the towels and water. “Dress.”

Robyn could smell the stink of her camouflage uniform, dusty and stiff with dried sweat. She felt like she had been shredded by days on the trail.

“Thank you,” she said, in English. She nodded her head, smiled her appreciation.

Wajia returned Robyn’s smile. Pushed through the curtain and left Robyn alone.

The back door beckoned.

It was too soon to attempt an escape. Robyn took off her plate carrier, wondered why Najibullah had allowed her to keep it. He must have wanted to afford her a measure of protection in the event of a firefight. Of course. He had abducted her for a reason.

Robyn stripped and bathed. Washed and dressed herself in Pashtun clothing. A white firaq, with baggy sleeves, tight cuffs, and a high collar. A turquoise shalwar. A dark blue chador or head scarf. She was also given a veil that she would wear in the presence of men other than Najibullah.

Wajia showed her into the main room, where they sat on mats and drank tea.

Najibullah joined them.

“We shall speak English,” Najibullah told her. “Wajia does not speak English, but she knows what I am about to tell you. Afterwards we shall go to my hujra and meet my lieutenants.”

“Alright,” Robyn said.

“You will share quarters with Wajia,” Najibullah said. “You will be part of my household.”

Robyn’s stomach clenched. She knew things about fundamentalist Islamic culture. The thought of becoming a harem slave was a childhood fantasy, but the prospect of experiencing the reality was terrifying. “How long will you keep me?”

Najibullah ignored her. “I have negotiated your status with the village imam. In this home, and in this village. Wajia is my wife. You are a captive of my right hand. And a guest. There are rules.”

“A captive of your right hand.”

“You were taken in battle, therefore you are a slave.” Najibullah spoke as though her status was obvious.

“If you touch me,” Robyn said, “you had better not sleep. I will kill you.”

“I am allowed four wives,” Najibullah continued, unimpressed, “and as many captives of the right hand as my finances permit. That is a substantial number, I assure you.”

Dear God, Robyn thought, he is going to rape me.

“You are also a guest.” The warlord spread his arms expansively. “I intend to hold you for ransom, and it behooves me to support your value. I shall do that by maintaining you in the condition in which you were found.”

“Can I be a slave and a guest?” Robyn asked.

“Within this house, you may go about with your hair uncovered. You may go about in traditional clothing. Outside the house, you will keep your hair and face covered at all times. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“I will have the head of any man who dares to gaze upon your naked face. Put on your chador and come with me.”

Wajia helped Robyn don her chador, and fastened her veil.

Najibullah led her through the front door into the sunlight. They walked forty feet to the other door she had noticed earlier. Inside was another sitting room. Rectangular, twenty by thirty feet. Two doorways in the back wall, widely spaced. Unlike those in the living room next door, these were solid wood. Two cold fireplaces, one at each end. Thick mats were arranged around the walls. Fifteen men sat, eight on one side of the room, seven on the other. Najibullah and Robyn sat cross-legged in the middle of the row of seven.

This was a Pashtun hujra. Robyn knew what they were, but this was the largest she had seen. It was a tribute to Najibullah’s affluence and prestige. The outer walls were of stone, at least a foot thick. The interior walls were paneled with wood, and carved. The windows had clear glass, and curtains that were drawn to let daylight into the room.

“Men are not permitted in one’s house,” Najibullah said. “This is my hujra, a place where I receive guests. Where we can be served by women, and allowed our time. You are here as an