Daughter of Nomads

Rosanne Hawke is the South Australian author of twenty-five books. She lived in Pakistan and the United Arab Emirates as an aid worker for ten years. Her books include
The Messenger Bird
, winner of the 2013 Cornish Holyer an Gof Award for Young Adult and Children's Literature and
Taj and the Great Camel Trek
, winner of the 2012 Adelaide Festival Awards for Children's Literature and shortlisted for the 2012 NSW Premier's Literary Awards. She is the 2015 recipient of the Nance Donkin Award; an Asialink, Carclew, Varuna and May Gibbs Fellow; and a Bard of Cornwall. She teaches creative writing at Tabor Adelaide and writes in an old Cornish farmhouse with underground rooms near Kapunda.

www.rosannehawke.com

Also by Rosanne Hawke

The Truth about Peacock Blue

Kerenza: A New Australian

Kelsey and the Quest of the Porcelain Doll

Shahana: Through My Eyes

Killer Ute

The Keeper

Sailmaker

Mountain Wolf

The Messenger Bird

Taj and the Great Camel Trek

Marrying Ameera

The Wish Giver,
with L Penner and

M Macintosh (illus.)

The Last Virgin in Year 10

Mustara,
with R Ingpen (illus.)

The Collector

Soraya, the Storyteller

Yar Dil,
with E Stanley (illus.)

Across the Creek

Borderland Trilogy
(
Re-entry, Jihad, Cameleer
)

Wolfchild

Zenna Dare

A Kiss in Every Wave

For Lenore, Michael and Emma,
celebrating our life and stories in the Karakoram Mountains.

Contents

Map of the Mughal Empire, 1662

Epigraphs

Book 1 The Tales of Jahani:
Daughter of Nomads

Plate 1

Plate 2

Plate 3

Plate 4

Map of the Mughal Empire, 1662: Jahani's Journey So Far

Book 2 The Tales of Jahani:
The Leopard Princess

Chapter 1

Main Characters

A Note about Languages

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Where lies thy carpet
there is thine home.

—Persian proverb

This is love: a story untold
remembered here in pages gold.

A girl: more lovely than the moon,
in myth and legend, her truth is hewn.

Of carpets, veils and nomads tall,
a horse, a sword; a leopard's call.

In your hands these words are sung,
O daughter of the Qurraqoram.

—Michael Hawke

1

Sherwan, Kingdom of Hazara Mughal Empire First Moon of Summer, 1662

T
he day turned dark as night. Ash burned the tiny child's throat. Every direction she turned, people screamed and shoved through the crowd. Black smoke billowed through doorways and windows. She coughed and a woman held her close.

‘Move!' a man shouted, helping them to run.

The child gasped as the smoke descended like giant black wings. Fire surrounded them, licking their clothes. The woman tripped into the flames, and the child tumbled down beside her. She howled while the man rolled them into a shawl to kill the flames. Horrified children stared until the man shouted, ‘Run to the river!'

Archers and men with swords swarmed toward them at a marching trot. The woman reached for the child's hand, but she was swept away in the stampede. The man scooped the child into his arms and raced toward the water.

With a thud, the man fell. An arrow protruded from his thigh. He struggled to rise as the child staggered away from him. He called to her, but she was too distraught to hear. She wept for her mother and could not stop.

Jahani snapped awake. It was the same old dream about the fire. It usually upset her sleep if she was worried, but today there was nothing to worry about.

Jahani stretched. Outside her window she could hear the clatter of horses' hooves on the bricked lane, and the onion seller pushing his wooden two-wheeled cart full of vegetables and onions, calling his wares, ‘Subzi! Piazay!'

Today Jahani and her best friend Sameela would visit the bazaar to buy henna for Sameela's mehndi party. She couldn't believe Sameela's wedding ceremony was next week! Today Sameela was still free, but tomorrow she would need to remain at home for seven days of festivities before her wedding.

Jahani peeked out the window. In the distance the mountains with their snowy veils shone. Why couldn't she have dreamed about the mountains with their fields of wildflowers, cries of peacocks, fairy horses and snow cats who understood her thoughts? That was the dream she woke from smiling and was much more suited to today.

Jahani sniffed and smelled crushed spices from the next room. Her mother Hafeezah was busy already. Jahani changed quickly into her silk shalwar qameez that Sameela had given her at the latest Eid, their religious festival; the blue matched her eyes, Sameela had said.

Hafeezah smiled as Jahani entered the front room. She was cooking buckwheat pancakes over the fire with one hand and trying to use a mortar and pestle with the other. Hafeezah was wearing her embroidered cap with a white dupatta, a gauze scarf, over two plaits. No other lady in their village wore a headdress like Hafeezah.

Jahani kissed her mother on the cheek and took the mortar from her. She pounded the coriander seeds, and in Burushaski said, ‘I'm sorry I overslept, Ammi.'

Burushaski was their secret language; it was Hafeezah's mother tongue from Hahayul, the most northern kingdom of the Qurraqoram Mountains on the Silk Route. When they were out Jahani knew to only speak in Hindustani and had stopped asking Hafeezah why. ‘We would appear ignorant to the people of Sherwan,' was all Hafeezah had said when Jahani asked.

Hafeezah's dark eyes searched Jahani's face. ‘I thought you'd be happy, going to the bazaar with Sameela today.'

‘I am, Ammi. We've been talking about it for weeks.' Jahani didn't mention her dream.

‘I'm glad. When you're in the bazaar remember to buy more gold threads. We can embroider Sameela's name on her wedding quilt tonight.'

‘Certainly.' Jahani had sewed the quilt in the evenings from remnants of old shalwar qameezes and curtains. Each piece had been carefully selected and stitched to show a memory from Sameela's childhood: a diamond from an outfit she wore when she was young, a horse embroidered for the times they went riding and an image of Gordafarid, the heroine for the games they played. ‘Sami will love it very much.'

‘Jahani,' Hafeezah paused, staring at Jahani's hair. ‘Remember to cover your head when you're in the bazaar.'

‘Am-mi.' Jahani sighed.

‘And please be careful. If only you had a brother.'

Jahani wished Hafeezah would forget her rules, especially on exciting days like today. Not every girl in Sherwan covered their hair when they went out, so she didn't understand why she had to. Who cared that she was the only girl in their village with red hair? She must have the hair of her ancestors because Hafeezah's was as black as a crow's feather.

Her mother worried too much. Always she was whispering blessings over Jahani in Burushaski: when she woke, when she lay down to sleep, when she was sick or left the house. Hafeezah had a blessing for every event: ‘May Qhuda give you the grace to do good things'; ‘May heaven become your destiny'; ‘I take this sickness from you'. She believed blessings and curses had effect. She even made Jahani wear a silver taveez around her neck to ward off the evil eye. The taveez was the biggest Jahani had ever seen: the cylinder was as long as her first finger and was intricately carved. Inside was a curled paper with what Jahani guessed were words from the Holy Book. She couldn't read it and nor could Hafeezah.

Perhaps Hafeezah was over-protective because Jahani had no father. Hafeezah was so close-lipped about their family that Jahani had often wondered if there was something amiss, but then Hafeezah would relate a story about the Qurraqoram Mountains she knew as a child, and the doubts fled.

There was a sudden shout at the door and their young neighbour burst into the room. He grinned at Jahani. ‘The tonga walla is here, Jahani jan.' He pulled her by the hand. ‘He's my uncle so a very good driver. He won't eat you, not today.'

Jahani scuffed the boy's head affectionately but he ducked and giggled. ‘What a jinn you are,' she said as she collected her shawl and purse from the next room. ‘I'll be home before the afternoon prayers, Ammi.'

‘Be careful.' Hafeezah looked strained as though she never wanted Jahani to leave the house.

Jahani kissed her mother on both cheeks. ‘Don't worry. I'll be safe. I always am.'

She swung out of the door and climbed into the waiting horse-drawn carriage.

Sameela greeted her with a barely controlled squeal and a hug. She had on her best silk shalwar qameez – it was orange – and glass bangles covered both her arms. She jingled as she sat back, her huge brown eyes sparkling at Jahani. ‘I'm so glad you could come today.'

‘Would I miss going to the bazaar with you?'

The driver clucked to his horse and the tonga lurched forward. Before long they were driving past houses more impressive than Jahani's two-roomed mud cottage. With clasped hands, Jahani and Sameela sat watching the oncoming traffic of horses, mules and wagons.

‘I wish we could do something for people like that.' Jahani indicated the blind beggar to Sameela. He was already on the street corner, seated on a threadbare rug. How did he feel being on the outside of village life? Even though they had little, Hafeezah had always taught her to be kind to the less fortunate.

Sameela shrugged. ‘You always want to change the world. How could we help in our tiny part of the empire, other than give alms? There are too many beggars in our small village. Imagine how many there are in the whole Kingdom of Hazara.'

The two girls watched the beggar as the carriage rattled past.

Sameela squeezed Jahani's hand. ‘I couldn't think of anyone better to share this special day with. And you must come early to my mehndi party next week. Oh, there is so much to do – the henna pots to get ready, the lanterns, the dances to practise!'

‘Have your wedding clothes come from the darzi?' Jahani watched Sameela blush with happiness.

‘Ji. Ammi has bought the groom's wedding outfit also.' She giggled. ‘It is so long. He must be tall.'

Jahani smiled at Sameela with fondness. ‘All will be revealed next week when you finally meet him. What an adventure!'

Jahani hoped she kept the longing out of her voice. If only she could go on an adventure, too. She wasn't a child anymore – she had begun her menses the year before – but marriage was for girls who had a father and dowry, neither of which Hafeezah could produce.

In Jahani's daydreams she was a warrior girl wielding a scimitar like Gordafarid, daughter of an old Persian hero, and she was loved passionately like the Emperor Shah Jahan loved his wife, Mumtaz.

Jahani and Sameela had even pretended they were the heroes Rostam and Sohrab fighting with swords to the last breath. Now, everything would change with Sameela's marriage. What if Sameela's husband didn't let her leave the house? Jahani had no other friends who she could confide in; she could even tell Sameela about her dreams. But she decided to make an effort to be excited for her friend. ‘I hope you will be very happy, Sami.'

Sameela smiled, then said quietly, ‘This may be my last outing.'

Jahani looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?'

‘As a girl. Next time I go out I will be a married woman.'

Jahani stared at her, wishing their day together would never end.

‘Do you remember when we met?' Sameela asked.

‘Certainly. We were only seven and I thought you were proud.'

‘Proud? You've never said that before.'

‘Well you lived in a beautiful stone house and wore such fine clothes, but you were scared of a bazaar dog.'

Sameela chuckled. ‘It was going to bite me! I couldn't believe how brave you were, going up to it like that and offering it your chapatti.'

Jahani was thoughtful remembering that day. It was almost as if the dog had spoken to her because she knew that it was hungry and had pups to feed. So giving it bread was a simple thing to do, even though they had little money that day and Hafeezah wouldn't have been able to buy her another. Sameela's mother had been effusively grateful for Jahani's help and had invited Jahani and Hafeezah to their home for chai.

‘It began a wonderful friendship,' Jahani said. ‘We're like heart sisters.'

Sameela put an arm around her. ‘So we are. I'm glad Abu asked for you to study with me. I was so bored before you came to my house every day. When I'm married I'll remember those times the most.'

Jahani nodded. It had been surprising that Sameela's family wanted a poor girl as a companion for her and it had taken many weeks for Hafeezah to agree to let Jahani go. When she finally relented, the girls had learned languages: Persian and Hindustani, which most people spoke, and a little Arabic from a mullah. Not Burushaski though; only Jahani and Hafeezah knew that. The tutor said Jahani had a flair for languages. ‘And we heard of the Angrezi rani, the Virgin Queen of England who ruled without a husband.' The Virgin Queen still fasci­nated Jahani.

Sameela laughed. ‘That wouldn't happen here.'

‘If it weren't for you, Sami, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to learn …' Jahani's voice trailed away.

‘I enjoyed our time together so much, sharing everything – even our clothes.'

‘Mainly yours,' Jahani reminded her.

As they approached the bazaar, Jahani saw brightly coloured lengths of cloth fluttering in the breeze, and polished copper pots next to hessian bags of yellow, orange and red spices displayed on the footpath. It was market day and there were many wagons and strangers in the lane. Pleasant smells of spices, cooking pastries and curries mingled with the stench of the drains. Shopkeepers yelled out their wares and above the noise keened the call to prayer. Both girls made sure their dupattas covered their heads, in respect.

Their tonga was travelling through the lower bazaar when Jahani sensed that they were being watched. She turned and noticed a man staring at them as their tonga drove past. His face was in shadow, but she could tell he was staring at her. Any decent man would turn away, but he didn't. She shivered.

Suddenly the tonga was caught in a knot of donkey wagons and other tongas.

‘We can't get close enough to the shop, it's so busy today,' Sameela said.

Jahani laughed. ‘Let's walk instead, it will be fun.'

The girls jumped down. Adjusting her shawl to cover her hair properly, Jahani looked about but she couldn't see the man.

Sameela grabbed her arm. ‘Ao, come.'

They pushed their way through the crush of people into the shop. Inside there were a few customers and the only man was the shopkeeper. Jahani let out a sigh of relief.

Her shawl slipped as she noticed the thousands of bangles that were also sold in the shop. ‘Red and gold for a bride, Sami,' she said impulsively, pointing to a set of two-dozen glass circles.

Sameela giggled. ‘They are very pretty. Abu will buy me real gold bangles for the ceremony.' She hesitated, then said, ‘But I'll buy these glass ones for later. I can dress as a bride for a year.'

‘Don't weep for me,' Jahani murmured, thinking of a new line for a poem she was writing for Sameela. ‘Wear your gold bangles the whole year.'

Sameela didn't notice as she haggled for the henna and bangles. After the goods were wrapped, the girls emerged from the shop. Talking excitedly, they stepped gingerly over the narrow nali with dirty water rushing beneath their feet. There were so many people crowding around and they couldn't see the tonga. A woman pushed past them, bumping Jahani's purse. Jahani lost her footing and was just regaining her balance when a man knocked her over.

‘Oh, Sami!' She caught at Sameela, dragging her to the ground. Sameela gasped, then she lay still.

‘Sami?' Jahani shook Sameela's shoulders but her fingers came away sticky.

‘What's the matter? Sami, speak to me!' Jahani watched in horror as blood seeped through Sameela's qameez and spread its terrible story.