on the banks of Lake Saiful Maluk, Malika Parbat’s reflection was being admired and broken by a stream of exhausted pilgrims and a dozen boats. Irfan warned Wes and Farhana to avoid the boats, declaring, simply, “They sink.”
It was Malika Parbat’s snowmelt that created the lake that reflected her. Her melt, tossed in with that of the surrounding mountains. If you let your imagination soar, far in the distance to the northwest of the Queen appeared a tiny fragment of what might have been the most photographed and feared peak in the Himalayan chain: Nanga Parbat. Naked Mountain. Or perhaps it was just some mystery mountain that only looked like him, for he was too far away to actually be seen from here. Whoever he was, by all accounts, he rarely showed himself as clearly as on that day. Even those who negotiated the lake’s treacherously deep and icy waters in creaky boats to better gaze upon the reflection of the Queen now lifted their chins to gawk across the cerulean sky at that phantom peak, who was her rival, or darling, depending on whom you asked.
Irfan stared in disbelief. “I’ve never seen him. It isn’t possible.”
“This is fairy lake,” I said.
“—Though I’ve heard it can happen,” continued Irfan, still staring, open-mouthed.
Apparently, people believed that on days when the mountain appeared—the one that only looked like Nanga Parbat, but could not have been—the Queen’s snow melted even faster, due either to her rage at having her beauty overshadowed, or her excitement at beholding her lover. And on such days his snow also melted faster, due either to his rage at having his beauty uncloaked—whose eyes were worthy enough?—or his triumph at beholding the Queen’s ferment. Whatever the reason, the lake that day had a strong tide. We could see it from the way the water rolled onto shore; we could have been by the sea.
“I’ve never seen it so rough,” said Irfan, now even more perplexed.
“Maybe the jinn is here,” said Farhana.
“He’s jealous of the love I have for my princess,” I murmured.
“Then step back!”
“But first, look at yourself.” I pulled her closer to the water’s edge.
She was flushed from the hike and her cheeks were as crimson as her jacket. Her hair framed her face in a wild halo of black frizz and her smile was especially radiant. I pulled her, and though our socks and shoes would remain wet for the rest of the day, we waded in further so she could see how lovely she was, and so we could see each other’s reflection in the mirror.
I didn’t know if I was imagining it but at that moment, the water was exceptionally calm. The tide seemed to wait. The lake lay flat as a puddle, and when Farhana craned her neck, the picture that answered back was of a girl as clear and unharried as the water itself, and of a boy beside her, bewitched.
“The jinn isn’t here,” I whispered. “The mountains are making deep, quiet love.”
I would have kissed her then, except it would have offended those around me. It seemed so unjust, the land could express its love but we could not. Later, I thought, gazing at her in the lake.
I caught a slight frown fleet across her reflection before she gave me a smile half of pity, half of promise. In the icy depths below, the Queen’s twin peaks fanned into triangular wings, enclosing us in a jagged cape of blessings. We stored her consent and pulled ourselves back to shore. Behind me, I heard the tide roll again.
Irfan was greeting the semi-nomadic tribes who made their summer homes on the lake’s shores. He spoke in a language I didn’t know, but I also heard some Urdu. I could tell that a lot of their communication involved names: names of those who’d moved to these heights for the summer and those who were staying down in the plains. They’d come with their cattle, horses, and sheepdogs. I spotted a few goats near the lake and several more on the hills to the north. Around us, goat bells chimed. There was a young child in a magenta kameez and a green satin shalwar brandishing a stick, while following a small black goat up a hill and there were half a dozen tourists following her, photographing her. She walked confidently, scratching her head, looking back and grinning. Her hair was the light tawny-blonde shade common to people of the valley, and it was so knotted it didn’t hang over her neck so much as rise from it, as if in the process of becoming dust. Her cheek was stained with dirt; front teeth were missing. I could hear a wet, rattling cough. Around her neck were heavy necklaces and her wrists were encased in even heavier bracelets. The older women must have been inside the tents.
“She’s beautiful,” said Farhana.
“She would be, if she were better taken care of.”
“You should have told me, I would have brought some supplies.”
“Told you what?”
She ignored my question and started following the girl. The small black goat had completely vanished, no doubt finding a tasty bit of scrub between the deodar and pine trees.
Though I knew it was no use, I called out after Farhana, “You know the British called the Gujjars a martial race? You know why?”
“Why?” It was Wes, standing behind me.
To be honest, I’d forgotten him. To be honest, I’d wanted to.
I said, “They’re naturally warlike and deceitful when not on your side, naturally brave and loyal when on your side.”
“Yeah?”
“Point is, that girl doesn’t need Farhana.”
He shrugged. “Maybe Farrah needs her.”
He put it so plainly. Notwithstanding the irritating nickname. “Sandwich?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
I unzipped my backpack and pulled out a plastic bag bulging with chicken sandwiches. They were soggy with butter and I’d lost my appetite for white bread since living in America, but otherwise, I was so hungry that nothing ever tasted better. Despite the company. What did Farhana see in him?
He was on his third sandwich and I on my second when Irfan joined us. In silence, Irfan poured himself a thermos cup of water.
“What did you talk about?” asked Wes.
Irfan pointed to the sky. “The clouds. They say it’s going to rain. They think we should walk back now, or stay the night.”
“Stay where?”
“I brought a tent.”
“Clever,” I murmured, and Wes whistled, impressed.
“You should have too,” Irfan said in our general direction.
“You should have said so,” Wes retorted.
“The weather is changeable.” This time he addressed me. “You know that.”
I’ll admit it, by this time Irfan’s glumness was beginning to irk. First the owl was a bad omen, then the school bus had fallen off the glacier while the poor schoolchildren were learning of princesses and jinns, then that comment about needing Farhana’s permission before we could look for the cave. Did I mention his repeated need to check his cell phone? He’d been pleasant enough in Karachi— not the way he used to be, before Zulekha’s death, but pleasant—so what had happened since? Down in the cabin, he was cordial with the staff; he knew the local khan well, and was friendly with him too. Moments earlier, he’d greeted the nomads with downright warmth. He could have expended some cheer on us. Or at least on me.
“I’m going boating,” said Wes, walking away, daring Irfan to tell him otherwise.
“Will we all fit in one tent?” I asked.
“You and Farhana can take it. Wes and I will sleep outside.”
“In the rain?”
“I can ask them,” he pointed to the nomads.
“Is it easier just to head back?”
“The