Read Online Silent Girl by Tricia Dower - Free Book Online Page B

crude sound of Russian. Your father wants you to have the life he waited for, a life you reject.”
    â€œI don’t! I’m studying it. But there’s more in the world than this sliver of land.”
    â€œAll your studies can do is to prove what we already know is true.” Dimira retrieves a faded and cracked photograph from a chest behind the kolomto and holds it out. Kyal has seen this photo before: Dimira, her two sisters and their mother, standing in long dresses and coats, great gnarled mountains rising behind them.
    â€œWe lived on the roof of the world,” Dimira says. “So high all we could raise were yaks. The sky and all that’s in it came to us. Why go anywhere else?”
    â€œThat was a long time ago, Ama. Life can’t be as it was then.”
    â€œIt can. If there’s only one road, no one gets lost.”
    Dimira hauls out tradition when it suits her. If she wanted to be rude, Kyal could point out that, in the past, selling things at market was considered a disgrace. Yet Ata sells horses and the women sell shirdaks. She studies her great-grandmother’s face in the photograph. Gentle but unafraid. Loneliness settles over her like mountain mist. “What was my mother like?” she asks.
    Dimira puts the photo away and takes Kyal’s cheeks in her calloused hands. “Restless like you. Harder to hold than a green horse. It wore me out to watch her.”
    â€œFather never speaks of her. Why is that?”
    â€œBecause she was cursed. That’s all you need to know.” Dimira flicks her hands in dismissal and walks away.
    Superstitious nonsense. A fantastic tale contrived to frighten.
    The first batch of tourists leave and the second turns up, along with a young man on a high-stepping grey horse he has to rein in sharply. Kyal is outside grooming Aisulu. The man’s horse is a natural racer, its body pulsing with energy. And oh, the soulful eyes – almond-shaped and hooded. Who chooses a horse so hard to control?
    Aigul hurries up to her and whispers, “That’s Jyrgal, Emil’s brother.”
    He looks neither like Emil, whose features are too perfect to trust, nor like the American whose wide shoulders and straight teeth made Kyal weak in the knees. This man is skinny as a bishkek with a head so long and narrow, one might think his mother pressed it between two boards the moment he left the womb. The alpine sun has deeply scorched his once fair skin. A herder, Kyal thinks, disappointed.
    Usen emerges from the yurt and holds the horse while Jyrgal – in jeans, long-sleeved black shirt, running shoes, and kalpak – dismounts. Usen calls out, “Kyal, I need you here now.” He waits until she stands beside him before spitting on the ground, taking Jyrgal’s two hands in his and asking, “How are your father’s horses, Son?”
    Jyrgal leans over to spit. “Strong and swift, praise Allah.” His full voice is startling. Such a head should hold only thin, reedy sounds.
    â€œAre you enjoying a peaceful life with your family?” Usen continues.
    â€œMore than I deserve, praise Allah,” Jyrgal replies.
    Kyal doubts religion rests any heavier on Jyrgal’s shoulders than it does on Usen’s and hers. “Praise Allah” is the polite thing to say, a ritual display she does not respect. She clears her throat in impatience.
    Usen throws a frown her way. “My daughter, Kyal. The one we spoke of when your family welcomed me recently.”
    So he’s done it. Sold her like a broodmare to this peasant. Tradition calls for her to bow slightly and cast a meek, virginal look at her suitor’s feet. Instead, she thrusts out a hand to Jyrgal and stares boldly into his face. He’s clean-shaven and smells like witch hazel. His eyes are as blue as a desert sky.
    â€œMy daughter likes to pretend she hasn’t been brought up well,” Usen says, pinching his cheek to show his