In early autumn, the evenings are brisk and the air rejuvenating. When the sun sets behind the mountains, a breeze cooled by Ab-e Pudah lake weaves its way through the peaks and valleys and drifts into Tali. It brushes through the poplar, willow, and ash trees, blows in through open windows, and carries away the lingering heat of the day.

Teacher Sadeq arrives after evening prayers. Having enjoyed his walk to the song of the frogs and crickets along the riverbank, he beams, “Mobin Khan, what a location you picked for your house, the entire village is at your feet!”

Mobin Khan, somewhat restored after a steaming bowl of khalwak and a pot of hollyhock and jujube tea, holds up the kerosene lamp and squints.

“Yes, it’s me, Sadeq!”

“Welcome, man of God! Come in. This student of yours is driving me mad. She won’t sit still, constantly asking, ‘Where is Teacher Sadeq? Why hasn’t Teacher Sadeq come?’”

“It seems she likes her teacher!”

“You make a friend; you’re stuck for life!” Mobin Khan says, lighting their way across the yard. “As soon as Mullah Sikhdad chants morning azan, she leaps out of bed, goes through her lessons, gulps down her tea and counts the minutes until Geesu comes for them to walk to school. As early as it may be, she still thinks it’s too late.”

Standing politely on the porch, Kowsar and Farrokh watch the yellow glow sway on the ground, growing longer, then shorter.

“Salaam!” they say in unison.

“Salaam, Kowsar. Are you well?”

She timidly looks down.

“Say, I’m well, and I hope you are well, too,” her father says.

Kowsar only giggles.

“And who is this young man?”

“My son, Farrokh. He is two years older than Kowsar,” Mobin Khan says as he opens the door and holds the curtain aside. Teacher Sadeq takes off his shoes and walks in with Kowsar and Farrokh quietly following him.

“Please,” Mobin Khan says, motioning to the floor cushion at the head of the room. “You are most welcome in our home.”

Sitting by the door with Farrokh, Kowsar worries how bare the copper tea tray will look without a bowl of candied sugar. What if Teacher Sadeq doesn’t like his tea unsweetened? Her father, sitting farther away from the teacher than is customary, apologizes and, still sounding congested, explains that he is suffering from a cold. Kowsar anxiously looks at him. Every time he wheezes, she imagines the germs rising from his throat and floating in the air. What if Father is not able to sit with the teacher long enough for her to learn what he has come to say?

“What did you say your son’s name is?”

“Farrokh.”

“A lovely name. May God make him an honorable man. . . . Well, Farrokh Khan, what do you do?”

Not allowing his son a moment to speak, Mobin Khan says, “With your blessing, we have a few sheep that he shepherds and takes to pasture every day. He’s my crutch, my right hand, that’s why I didn’t send him to school with Kowsar.”

“If only you would, Mobin Khan. In this day and age, it’s a shame for such a fine young prince to remain illiterate.”

“Yes, I know, Teacher Sahib. If anyone were to get anywhere and gain anything from raising sheep and plowing the land, I would have gotten somewhere and gained something. I have spent my life toiling in these mountains, but my one loaf of bread has not become two.”

The teacher looks squarely at him and shakes his head.

“Raising livestock is not easy, Teacher Sahib. There’s disease and loss. If the herd survive infection, they are prey for wolves and—”

Mobin Khan wrinkles his nose, quickly turns away, and sneezes several times. Kowsar smiles, picturing colorful specks of blue, green, and purple flying into the air and twirling around each other before fading away.

“Forgive me, it’s this god-forsaken cold. . . . It was only a few years ago when no more than six of my goats outlived disease. The others, their stomachs swelled, their eyes turned white, and they choked to death before our eyes. . . . My girl, go tell your mother to prepare tea.”

Kowsar darts out of the room and finds her mother in the kitchen with the fire already blazing in the cookstove and the kettle steaming.

“Father said to prepare tea.”

“I know, I know! Tell him it’s brewing.”

“This is a beautiful village,” Teacher Sadeq is saying when Kowsar returns and quietly takes her place. “I had heard of Tali being a green and verdant valley, but when has hearing ever been better than seeing? I was amazed when I first arrived. And such a pleasant climate. . . . But, Farrokh Khan, tell me, would you like to go to school?”

Farrokh nervously looks at his father.

“I didn’t ask Mobin Khan,” the teacher says, laughing lightly. “I asked you.”

Farrokh looks down and remains silent.

“Have you ever been to Qala-e Naw?”

“Who? Me?”

“Yes, you, Farrokh Khan!”

“No, I’ve only been to Jawand with Father. And twice to Wuluswali.”

“I love traveling,” Teacher Sadeq says. “I would like to see all of Afghanistan. I have heard a lot about the beauty of Salang Pass, Bamyan province, and Band-e Amir National Park. I pray God will one day bless me with the opportunity to see them.”

“Teacher Sahib, how about Herat?” Kowsar asks. “Have you been there?”

“Herat? But Herat is only next door! I studied there at Teachers Academy. In school you will learn that we have an amazing country, Kowsar. We have people of every creed and color. Tajiks, Uzbeks, Turkmans, and Pashtuns. One is famed for carpet weaving, another for horticulture or farming, cattle breeding or architecture and fine arts. . . . Alas, Mobin Khan, if outsiders and inciters leave us be, if we have some measure of safety and security, our country could flourish into a blooming orchard.”

“We have been hoping for more than fifty years,” Mobin Khan says somberly. “But the news is more dire every year and every day.”

Teacher Sadeq looks around the barren room, at the barely perceptible design of the timeworn carpet, at the lower end of the room where the floor remains bare. In the darkest corner, he can make out the silhouette of two sacks of grain with a salt block on top of one. In the opposite corner, a stack of mattresses and blankets are draped with a brown bedding cover. He knows that in this village, as in all others, this is the life of the majority.

Kowsar wishes he would say what he has come to say, but Teacher Sadeq is silent.

“Son,” her mother calls from the porch. “Come take the tea.”

Farrokh hurries out and she cautions, “The teapot is hot. Let your father serve.”

Kowsar’s eyes are fixed on the tray as Farrokh walks in and sets it down in front of Mobin Khan. A teapot, two tea bowls, and a plate of black raisins. She smiles and thinks, I knew you had something hidden away in your trunk, Mother!

“It would be wonderful if Farrokh’s mother could come sit with us,” Teacher Sadeq says. “I would like her to hear what I have come to discuss with you. Of course, if she observes hijab, it will be fine if she listens at the door.”

“We don’t have such constraints in Tali, Teacher Sahib. We all know each other. And you are our daughter’s teacher. An intimate and a brother,” Mobin Khan says, before shouting, “Golrokh! Come! Teacher Sahib has something to tell us.”

“Of course, pour the tea, I’ll be right there.”

Mobin Khan fills the tea bowls in between stifled coughs and apologetically says, “Teacher Sahib, we don’t have any candied sugar. Please sweeten your pallet with raisins.”

Moments later, Golrokh, her long hair loosely covered with a scarf, walks in and greets the teacher before sitting with her children by the door.

“Forgive me for disturbing your evening, Sister,” Teacher Sadeq says.

“A guest is a friend of God. You honor us. Kowsar has been in a tizzy since noon.”

Teacher Sadeq looks at Kowsar, sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin perched on her knees, staring at him.

“Sister,” he says, “your Kowsar is not an average child, and not an average student. God has blessed her with astonishing aptitude and acumen.”

“May God keep her healthy,” Golrokh says, having only understood that he is praising her daughter. “I wish you long life, Teacher Sahib.”

“Mobin Khan, your daughter has very quickly learned to read and write, and in a short time, she has finished studying the first and second grade schoolbooks. She has passed every test I have given her. Everything she reads is stored in her memory. Kowsar is a genius child, a prodigy. . . . At the end of the month when I go home to Qala-e Naw, I will arrange to see the chief director of the province’s Department of Education. Everyone should know about Kowsar. Your daughter should be supported and allowed to achieve what God has meant for her. And the education she deserves and needs when she is older is beyond what she can receive in Tali.”

Kowsar revels in her teacher’s praise. Mobin Khan sits wide-eyed, though unmistakably pleased. Golrokh remains puzzled.

“Our Kowsar is clever,” Mobin Khan says. “Sometimes she’s a mischief as all children are, other times she is as wise as a sixty-year-old. But what’s the use? Even if she could swallow flames, what good would it do a small-time farmer and shepherd, a mountain dweller like me?”

“Mobin Khan, you should be thrilled and proud of being father to such a child. She is a gift from God! You have lived a decent and honest life to have been blessed with her.”

“If only God had given her brain to Farrokh,” Golrokh says. “What use are school and books to a helpless wretch? Which one of her troubles and pains will they heal? Soon she will marry and go with her husband to some distant place, to the far side of dark mountains. And her place will be at the cookstove, the washbasin, and the kiln.”

A torrent of fears drowns Kowsar’s joy. She imagines her mother’s words as bats flying from her lips and ripping through the air in the dim room. What Golrokh had said in the kitchen thunders in her ears. “A wretch has no voice of her own.”

“If Kowsar’s education is of no use to her and of no importance to you,” Teacher Sadeq says sharply, “then why did you send her to school?”

Kowsar watches her mother’s mouth open, and more bats fly out.

“Our girl has fainting spells. God only knows who put a curse on her. Prayers and cures were useless. They said to burn hair from a horse’s mane, feather from a crow, tail of a fox. Even the healing Mullah’s incantations did no good. When the school opened, we sent her there with Geesu, thinking it would distract her, break her habit.”

The bats tear in every direction. The air is stifling. Short of breath and convulsing, Kowsar loses consciousness. Now, everything is quiet, light, and fluid. All that occupies the air is the glow of the lamp.

“Son!” Mobin Khan says, jumping to his feet. “A bowl of water!”

Farrokh runs out and Teacher Sadeq, pale and panicked, rushes to Kowsar’s side and feels her forehead. Golrokh quickly brings a pillow and Mobin Khan pulls Kowsar’s skirt down over her knees.

“Don’t worry, Teacher Sahib,” Mobin Khan says, stroking Kowsar’s hand. “She will come to in a minute.”

Sadeq Khan moves back and slumps against the wall.

“How could you say such things to your daughter?” he says, his voice shaking with anger. “Why do you tell her Farrokh deserves her brain? Why doesn’t she deserve it herself? Why do you tell her she is cursed? Why do you frighten her, saying some man will take her to the far side of dark mountains!? Kowsar is a child. She thinks of you as her shelter, her protector. And yet, you traumatize her. She is not a wretch! She is a genius. She needs to be embraced and encouraged by you. I beg you, stop! Don’t demoralize an innocent child!”

Golrokh and Mobin Khan, too occupied with Kowsar, pay no mind.

Farrokh comes with a bowl of water and Golrokh sprinkles some on Kowsar’s face, wets her earlobes, and rubs them as she recites prayers.

Kowsar has no desire to wake. She floats out to the porch. The night sky is sprinkled with stars and the moon is showering the mountain river with its creamy glow. The poplars’ leaves sway like dangling earrings, the frogs serenade one another, and the crickets sing an anthem to life, at times solo, at times in chorus.

The mountains each carry other peaks on their back, all dark, all menacing. Beyond them, Kowsar thinks, there are no rivers, no poplars, no frogs, no crickets. There is only silence as colossal as these mountains. I won’t go. I won’t go anywhere away from Mother and Father.

Inside, her parents are still tending to her, rubbing her hands, stroking her forehead. Farrokh’s eyes are at times on her, at times on her teacher, who is staring at the moths circling the lamp.

“Teacher Sahib,” Mobin Khan says. “Please, drink your tea, it’s getting cold. We are used to Kowsar’s bouts.”

Teacher Sadeq says nothing. Mobin Khan goes to the tray, pours a fresh bowl, and sets it down next to him.

“Please,” he says, holding out the plate of raisins. “Sweeten your pallet.”

“Thank you, I have no appetite for sweets.”

Teacher Sadeq takes a sip of tea and wonders if the doctors in Qala-e Naw can diagnose and cure Kowsar. He thinks, I must convince her parents not to allow her to waste away. She herself should become a doctor and heal thousands of others.

Kowsar softly slips back into her body, draws a sharp breath, and slowly opens her eyes.

“Are you all right, my girl?” Golrokh asks.

“Come, Kowsar, come sit on my lap,” Mobin Khan says, bending down to pick her up.

“Don’t, Mobin Khan,” Golrokh warns, gripping his arm. “Your cold is catching, she’ll get sick.”

Sitting Kowsar on her knee, she says, “Teacher Sahib, now you see the state of our life. . . . Please, take a few raisins. Don’t drink your tea unsweetened.”

From under her drooping eyelids Kowsar watches Teacher Sadeq reluctantly take a few raisins and put them in his mouth.

“Tell us about yourself,” Mobin Khan says, hoping to change the mood and atmosphere. “Where are you from, how many children do you have?”

“As I said, I’m from Qala-e Naw,” he says flatly and halfheartedly. “I have a son, Assem. My father is in the pistachio trade and has a shop in the bazaar. I worked with him when I finished school, but the pistachio market suffered badly. The farms lost their owners and villagers repeatedly raided and pillaged them. The old saying goes: Though waiting is bitter, its fruit is sweet. But people stripped the trees before harvest time. We hoped the government would step in, but it was their own officials holding the bag. It’s still the same plight and plunder.”

“Yes, Teacher Sahib, I know. That’s why the likes of me stopped going for pistachios.”

“Well, I changed my path and became a teacher.”

“Truth is the way of God, Teacher Sahib. As for me and my livelihood, I have seven acres of land down the mountain, near Ab-e Pudah Lake. I sometimes plant rice, other times wheat or mung beans. If I can afford to buy more seeds, I plant peas and other beans on the mountainside. That’s God’s land. If it’s a good year with plenty of rain, the mountain crop is not bad. But some years, what I pay for seeds is a loss.”

Mobin Khan stops to cough and take a deep breath. “Golrokh, brew some more hollyhock and jujube tea,” he says and turns to the teacher again. “You are from Badghis. You know how difficult life is in these mountains. Especially in the winter when heavy snows make getting around impossible. To make it to spring without suffering, we need to have two well-fed sheep and our grain vessels filled to the brim.”

Kowsar watches the men, desperately hoping the teacher will go back to talking about her education. But he doesn’t.

“Well, that’s life in the mountains. . . . By the way, Farrokh Khan, until what time do you pasture the sheep?”

“What?!” Farrokh half shouts, jolting out of his daze.

Kowsar bursts into laughter but quickly covers her mouth.

“I asked, until what time do you pasture the sheep.”

“Until noon, Teacher Sahib. Until Mullah’s mid-day azan. That’s when the weather starts to get hot, and I bring the sheep back to the hold.”

“Well, come to school after lunch, and I’ll be your teacher, too. You can learn to read and write.”

Farrokh looks warily at his father. The only sound in the room is the drone of the moth, its wings now singed, struggling to fly away from the lamp.

“Nutcase! Say yes!” Kowsar blurts out, and immediately lowers her head, knowing she has spoken against her father’s wishes.

Despite the displeasure etched on his face, Mobin Khan remains silent.

“Farrokh Khan, you have an intelligent and educated sister,” Teacher Sadeq goes on. “It’s a shame for you to remain illiterate and not advance in life.”

“You say it,” Farrokh whispers, nudging Kowsar with his elbow. “Say I will go.”

“Farrokh will come to school!” Kowsar announces, her eyes still fixed on the carpet.

“In fact,” Teacher Sadeq quickly adds, “there are several other girls and boys who, like you, can’t come to school in the morning, but they can come in the afternoon. I have free time then, so I’m organizing afternoon classes as well.”

“Teacher Sadeq, I will not—”

“It’s between you and God, Mobin Khan,” the teacher interrupts. “Put your excuses aside. Your son wants to go to school. Let him! You’ll see, he will make a man of himself, he will become an engineer, build bridges, dams, and roads for you.”

With all eyes on him, Mobin Khan weighs his thoughts and words.

“Teacher Sahib,” he finally says in a measured tone. “What is there for me to say. Now that Farrokh himself is eager, we will do as you see fit. But at home, he—”

“Excellent! It’s a done deal. And, Mobin Khan, stop being so stern!”

“And you, so stubborn!”

Farrokh beams with excitement and Kowsar leaps up and cheers.

“Mother! Mother!” she screams as Golrokh walks in with the herbal brew. “Farrokh will come to school, too. Father said yes!”

Golrokh smiles, sets the tea down in front of her husband, and says, “Mobin Khan, if Teacher Sahib’s tea has cooled, I’ll bring a fresh pot.”

“Bless you, Sister, it’s late. I should be on my way.”

“Teacher Sahib!” Kowsar says anxiously. “You forgot to talk about that other thing.”

“What other thing, Kowsar?!”

“About the doctors.”

“Yes, of course. I did forget, but—How did you know?”

“I . . . you said . . . um . . . I can’t remember,” she stammers.

“I will speak to the chief director of the Department of Education, as I’m obliged to do,” the teacher says, looking perplexed. “How he and others respond and what they decide, I cannot say. And yes, I will find a good doctor in town, and you and I, Mobin Khan, will take Kowsar to him.”