Sahib, I was young and foolish and my blood was on fire by reason of the way they had mocked me. Although in my secret heart I felt no certainty about the matter, I answered boldly that I could hit the stone with ease.
My words were greeted by the laughter they deserved. Those were Afridis who had heard me, fighting men who had carried firearms since they could walk. They knew that my claim was but an empty boast. And they shouted to the chief that he should put me to the test.
Nir Din raised his hand to command silence. He answered in a loud voice so that all could hear:
“Against the evidence of a dozen men Feroz Khan has sworn that Abdul Hakim is innocent of the theft. Also, he has claimed that he can do the impossible with his rifle, and it is in my heart, therefore, to expose him as the liar he most assuredly is.
“I will give him a chance to fulfill his boast. Tomorrow Abdul Hakim will be tied to a post so that he cannot move, and this stone will be placed upon his head. If Feroz Khan can knock the stone off with a single bullet, without grazing the skin, I will take it as a sign from Allah that his blood-brother was innocent of the theft. If he misses the stone by aiming high or wide, Abdul Hakim will die with the strangling cord round his neck according to the custom; and if the bullet flies low and kills Abdul Hakim we will know that he was guilty and that Allah himself has dealt justice... Feroz Khan, you have heard my words. Do you agree to make the test?”
Sahib, what could I do except agree? Had I refused, my blood-brother would have lost even that poor chance of his life being saved.
So I agreed. Outwardly my face was bold, but there was no confidence in my heart. It was such a little stone, and how could I, under such a load of anxiety, shoot my best? A man must have an easy mind if he would shoot straight.
I passed the night cleaning my rifle and offering prayers to Allah that he would defend the innocent. When the sun was fully risen they took me to the place where the test was to be made. Abdul Hakim had been bound to a post so that he could not move a finger, and Nir Din himself placed the white stone upon his head.
At four hundred yards distance I lay down and sighted my rifle at the stone. Behind me stood Nir Din and the elders of the village, and with them was Shere Makmud and the other men who had given witness. And these false ones grinned and whispered to each other as they watched.
I had planned to fire quickly, but my heart was beating so fast that my hands shook. The pebble danced about the foresight like a tiny white midge. Perspiration ran down my forehead and blinded my eyes. At last I lowered the rifle in despair without having touched the trigger.
Sahib, you should have heard how Shere Makmud and the dogs that were his friends yelped their glee! They thought I was afraid to fire, and by Allah they were right, but that wasn’t for them to know!
It was as if a devil came into my heart when I heard their laughter. I turned to Nir Din and asked him if he would grant me a favor.
He asked me what I wished, and I answered, “Nir Din, it is in my heart to shame these fools. In their ignorance they think it is impossible to hit the stone at this range. Shall we move back another hundred yards so that I can show them the marksmanship of Feroz Khan?”
And Nir Din answered, “It is your choice. Since you think the test is too easy we will increase the range.”
So we moved back another hundred yards to the foot of a hill that stood beside the plain. And again I lay down and took my aim.
Now I could no longer see the pebble save as the faintest blur of white upon the darkness of Abdul Hakim’s hair.
It came into my mind to aim low, thus saving my blood-brother from death by strangulation. But the beating of my heart made my rifle waver like a branch in the wind. And I was lying on soft sand that gave no firm rest for my elbow.
At last I lowered the rifle a second time, and Shere Makmud and his friends yelled like jackals chasing a fox, asking me why I did not fire, and if I thought the range was still too short.
Sahib, it was as if the blood within me turned to fire when I heard their taunts. Turning to the chief I asked if I might go up to the top of the hill and prove my marksmanship by hitting the stone from there?
Laughing, he gave permission. It was a small hill, but the sides were steep. I climbed up alone.
It was my last chance, Sahib. I swear that neither before nor since has a man aimed a rifle with greater care.
I made my body, as it were, part of the rock on which I lay. I cleaved to it with my chest, my knees, the inside of my thighs and feet. I thought of the sun and the wind and the distortion of the glare beating up from the sand. While I made the calculations I prayed to Allah, and my forefinger tightened on the trigger as slowly as the tendril of a plant curling round a twig.
I held my breath. I think even my heart stopped beating. And then — gently, lingeringly, as if I were kissing the lips of a “houri” — I dispatched the bullet. But before it had left the barrel I knew that it would never hit the pebble.
I had aimed short and a little to the left. Very short, if the truth be told. Instead of winging its way above the plain to where Abdul stood, my bullet struck the sand close to the foot of the hill... Ay, but before it struck that sand it had passed through Shere Makmud’s head.
Before Shere Makmud’s body had touched the ground his brother somersaulted into the air with my second bullet through his spine. I was firing faster than a man could wink. My third bullet brought down Shere Makmud’s father, and my fourth and fifth sent yet two more of the lying dogs to howl at the gates of Paradise.
Ho, ho, Sahib! If only you had been present to see! There was no cover where they could hide. Had I wished, I could have killed them all with ease. When I shouted to them and asked if they were satisfied with the progress of the test, they answered on their knees with their hands raised in the air.
With one voice they cried that Abdul Hakim was innocent, and they besought me not to fire again lest once more I should miss the pebble!
Sahib, behold the body of the gazelle. Shot through the neck instead of where I said. Blame the fever, Sahib — the fever that made my hand shake.
The Second Children’s Hour
“Well?”
by Rebecca Weiner
In our July 1954 issue we brought you a group of four stories by children — “first stories” by a twelve-year-old boy from Brooklyn, a twelve-year-old American boy living in Ireland, an eight-year-old American girl living in Germany, and a six-year-old child prodigy from New York These four tales were remarkable efforts to have come from such young writers, and the stories themselves almost ran the gamut of the mystery field — a study of juvenile delinquency, a hardboiled satire, a “pure” detective story, and a new-fashioned ghost story. We wondered if our publication of stories by children would quicken the interest of other children to try so difficult a “game” as creative writing. We hoped it would, and we are glad to report that our hopes were fulfilled.
We are now ready to give you The Second Children’s Hour — this time two stories, one by a fifteen-year-old girl and the other by a nine-year-old boy... what talent there is in the younger generation!
First, then, meet Rebecca Weiner, a Junior (at the time she wrote her story) at Hillhouse High School in New Haven, Connecticut. In her letter accompanying the story, Miss Weiner said: “I have always been a little shy of showing my stories even to my family; now I am taking a step that is just about killing me — sending you a story.” Have you ever read a more touching, more sensitive, more penetratingly true statement made by a young — a very young — author?