On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

Genres: Literary Fiction; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

The haunting story of a family of dreamers and tale-tellers looking for home in an unwelcoming world.
Firuzeh and her brother Nour are children of fire, born in an Afghanistan fractured by war. When their parents, their Atay and Abay, decide to leave, they spin tales of their destination, the mythical land and opportunities of Australia. As the family journeys from Pakistan to Indonesia
to Nauru, heading toward a hope of home, they must rely on fragile and temporary shelters, strangers both mercenary and kind, and friends who vanish as quickly as they’re found.
When they arrive in Australia, a seemingly stable shore gives way to treacherous currents. Neighbors, classmates, and the government seek their own ends, indifferent to the family’s fate. For Firuzeh, her fantasy worlds provide some relief, but as her family and home splinter, she
must surface from these imaginings and find a new way.
This exquisite and unusual magic realist debut, told in intensely lyrical prose by an award-winning author, traces one girl’s migration from war to peace, loss to loss, hope to home.

Release date: February 2, 2021

Publisher: Erewhon Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Listen said Abay bring me your clothes to pack and I will tell you the story of Rostam and Rakhsh.

At least sit still, Nour, and don’t tear down the laundry

At least sit

Nour—please—

Rostam was rash and brave like you, light of my eyes, and when the time came to find him a steed, every horse buckled under his warrior’s weight.

So they ran the best horses of Kabul past him, the swiftest and most beautiful, and just like your Atay feels the engine of a Corolla throbbing through the hood and knows how well it runs, you could feel the proud heartbeat of these horses.

God knows stabling horses wasn’t a dangerous job then;

no one threatened the Kabuli stable keepers who paraded their horses for this prince.

We should have stayed servants—but your father is proud.

Anyhow—

Rostam cut from the herd a beautiful colt spotted like rose petals on saffron,

like the silk flowers from Chicken Street on a wedding taxi.

He tossed his lasso around its neck and asked the price of the horse.

If you are Rostam, said the herdsman, its price is nothing less than this country—go forth and defend it.

So Rostam and Rakhsh traveled forth seeking adventure

as we are all about to do

and Rakhsh kept Rostam safe, as your Atay and I will keep you safe.

Rakhsh guarded Rostam while he slept. First he killed a lion that crept up in the night. In the morning Rostam discovered shreds of lion in his horse’s teeth and on his horse’s hooves.

Then Rakhsh kicked Rostam awake when a dragon approached.

Once.

Twice.

Both times Rostam saw nothing. He threatened to kill the useless son of a donkey if he was woken up again.

The third time, Rostam saw the dragon and slew it, and praised Rakhsh—how he praised him, light of my eyes.

Deeply did Rostam love Rakhsh, as much as a mother loves her son.

They rode together for many years and countless farsang, until treachery—

but that is another story.

We will ride a bus to Jalalabad tonight, just as Rostam rode Rakhsh to challenge the White Div. In Jalalabad we will change buses the way Persian warriors changed horses and ride to Pakistan. It will be like a story.

I need you to be good

I need you to be quiet

I need you to not pull Firuzeh’s hair, Nour

I pass our Quran over you, so you are blessed. Kiss it. Now you. No, it will stay here, to protect our home while we are gone.

Put on your shoes.

The ripped vinyl of the seat caught Firuzeh’s skirt as she shifted to peek out of the minibus window. Nour’s elbow dug into her side.

Atay, are we in Pakistan yet?

Not yet, Nour.

How much longer?

A little while.

You said that when we were on the bus.

It’s still true. Don’t kick.

You liked the plush German bus, didn’t you? And the trucks that bumped up and down but had beautiful eyes on their back gates and flowers and lions on their sides?

Yes, Abay.

I didn’t. They hurt my bum. Firuzeh has more bum, that’s why hers doesn’t hurt.

I liked the sheep on the truck. It was soft.

This one’s too crowded. Everyone smells.

You smell, Nour.

Just a little longer, Nour jan. A few more minutes and we’ll be at the border.

Will there be police, Atay?

Enough. I need to remember four hundred things today. Ask your mother.

Will the police stop us, Abay?

What a question.

Are we going to get in trouble?

Do you want to know something? For a few afghanis you can cross the border into Pakistan unhindered. That is how day workers flow in and out with a little more money in their pockets. The tide of adventurers—that’s what we are—flows in and does not return. It is not dangerous at all, Firuzeh, not like what Bibinegar had to do.

What did Bibinegar have to do?

She had to win back her husband Khastehkhomar from a demoness and stay alive.

And did she?

If you’re going to tell stories in front of everyone—Atay rubbed his eyes—at least do it properly. From the beginning. The snake.

All right. One day among days a woodcutter found a snake in his bundle, thick as your Atay’s arm. He almost died of fear right there, but the snake said, I will not harm you if you marry me to your daughter. Bibinegar was a brave girl and agreed. On their wedding night, when the guests were gone, the snake flung off his skin and became a beautiful young man, Khastehkhomar. And they lived very happily together.

But the women had to gossip and say idle, foolish things. Atay sighed. Isn’t that always so?

Abay said: If Firuzeh married a snake who was also a man, wouldn’t you try to make him less snake and more man?

If that snake tried his nonsense with my daughter, I’d have beaten him to death.

Or taken her and fled the country.

Abay, is that why we had to leave?

Listen to the story, Nour.

Firuzeh eats too much and won’t let me win at walnuts—who’d want her?

Why not ask him how to destroy his skin, Bibinegar’s mother said. To make him stay. So Bibinegar asked Khastehkhomar, and he said, if you must know, you can burn it in a fire of onion skins and garlic peels. But if you do that, I will leave you forever. And Bibinegar told her mother all this.

That old woman probably wept, wrung her hands, tore her hair, said shame! and all those things that mothers-in-law do. Of course that silly girl bent under all that pressure. Of course the skin was burned.

Did you want to tell this story, husband?

Please, go on.

Khastehkhomar smelled the smoke from afar and knew what had happened. He came to his wife and said, so you’ve done it. Now I must leave you. She wept and said, Is there no other way? And Khastehkhomar said, Only if you walk until you wear out seven pairs of iron shoes to reach Mount Qaf, where my relatives the peris live, which is where I am going. So Bibinegar—

Enough. They’re asleep.

No . . . I’m—not . . .

You say this man is trustworthy?

As trustworthy as any of them. He’s gotten six men to Australia.

Where’s Australia?

I don’t know. But it’s safe, he said. The children will go to good schools. No one will attack me in the street, or leave threatening letters, or insult you.

The right question to ask a smuggler like that, one of the other passengers interjected, is—how many men did he fail to get to Australia?

I did not ask him that.

Then God help you.

You speak from experience?

I had a Herati cousin headed to Germany through Iran. Haven’t heard from him in months. They found some boys dead in a cargo container, but he wasn’t among them. The smuggler has left Herat, for who-knows-where. And you, you have a wife and children—

Quiet, please. Don’t wake them. They don’t need to be frightened.

How else do children learn?

Firuzeh cracked her eyes open. In front of her, wedged among tightly corded bundles, a chukar swayed in its wire cage, staring, its black pupil ringed in brown then red. Destined for battle. To claw and draw blood and finally be eaten. Now and then a jolt of the minibus knocked a querulous note from its throat.

And she, and she—

Was Rostam on his speckled steed, riding into unknown lands.

Was Bibinegar in iron shoes, gone to Mount Qaf, where wonders were.

Was as disobedient as snake-shouldered Zahhak when she pinched her brother and made him wail, or so Abay often said.

Goodbye to Homaira, goodbye to Sheringol, goodbye to the dry, sweet smell of the classroom where she learned her lessons, where the harried teacher always called on someone else, never mind that Firuzeh leaned almost on tiptoe from her desk, vibrating with answers.

Goodbye to home and the creaking, clanging front gate, and the steaming vats of breakfast pulses by the road, and the men sitting in wheelbarrows, waiting for work.

Goodbye to the mountains sharp with snow.

Atay gestured toward a stranger. Agha, do you know how much longer . . .

Only an hour or so to the border. Where are you going?

Peshawar.

Where in Peshawar?

I don’t know. I have a name, a phone number—

Fool, the stranger said amiably. A name and a phone number, a name and a phone number, all the way to Australia—is that how you’ll go? God protect you.

Abay said: My husband is no fool.

A long, sad look. Then the stranger proffered a pocketful of dried mulberries. For the children, he said, and turned to face the front, and from then until Peshawar he did not speak again.

Firuzeh was sleepy and stumbling when they reached the compound in Peshawar. A door opened; lamplight flared. A paper cutout of a man, smelling of garlic and cigarettes, rippled out to greet them.

A pleasure to meet you, a pleasure. I am Abdullah Khan. What are you waiting for? he said to the driver of the dingy car they had come in.

You said two thousand rupees.

Come back for it tomorrow.

But—

Am I not good for my word?

The driver retreated. Abdullah Khan threw his arm around Atay’s shoulders. Come in, welcome.

Up the stairs. Three narrow beds in a dark and musty room. On the windowsill, a brown stick clawed upward from its pot.

You’ll wait here, Abdullah Khan said. Until we have your documents and tickets ready.

How long? Abay said, her eyes measuring the room.

We don’t know. But don’t worry, we’ll take care of it. He applied a lighter to a cigarette. The rent is modest, one hundred fifty rupees a night.

But we already paid twenty thousand dollars in Kabul—

Hearing a mouse’s noise, Firuzeh popped her head out the door. Down the dim hall, a plump-cheeked girl peered out of another doorway.

They regarded each other silently for a moment. The yellow ruffles of the strange girl’s dress, the glossy crimp of her hair, and the leather daisy on her shoe smacked of having, owning, ordering. Then the strange girl pulled a face and vanished back into her room.

Firuzeh took two steps down the hall, and then Abdullah Khan was backing out of the door, effusive and firm. His smile did not quite reach his eyes. Even as Atay continued to protest, left hand gesticulating, his right hand descended on Firuzeh’s shoulder and steered her back inside.

Behave.



This is Agha Rahmatullah Shahsevani, Khanem Delruba, and Nasima. They’re also going to Australia. Firuzeh jan, what do you say?

We were here first, the girl in the yellow dress said, folding her arms.

Hello, Firuzeh mumbled. Then: Why doesn’t Nour have to say anything?

Because I’m younger than you, stupid.

I’m sure the girls will get along. No, Nasima is the youngest, we have three altogether. Jawed and Khairullah are in Perth already. Working. We’re going to join them.

Do you believe what they say? How long will we have to wait?

They’re honest men. They got our sons to Perth.

Where did you work, Agha Rahmatullah?

In the government.

My father is very important, Nasima said, fidgeting with the cloth of her skirt. People ask him for permissions, stamps, and signatures. Is your father important?

He’s like the stable keeper who brought Rakhsh to Rostam, Firuzeh said.

He fixes automobiles, Nour said. Ow! Firuzeh!

Are they charging us too much for our rooms? What’s the rate for a room in Peshawar?

God knows, Delruba said.

We’ve paid fortunes already, Rahmatullah said. This is a trifle. A sneeze.

We don’t have any sneezes left.

Is your family poor? Nasima said. You don’t look like you have much money.

Look at them, friends already. Such sweet kids.

I like your shoes, Firuzeh said, angry and shy and confused.

Thank you. They are real leather. Made in Iran. And yours are—?

The boys couldn’t keep their mouths shut, Rahmatullah said. If there was a petition, they signed it. If there was a movement, they joined it.

The letters we would get! His head and beard went white, see?

It cost us almost everything we had to send them to Australia. Now they send us back a little here, a little there—

They are good boys. If dumb as oxen.

Is your brother dumb too? Nasima said.

Very.

The two girls turned their heads to appraise Nour. He had abandoned their conversation to watch an ant march along the window, through slashes of sunlight, up the flowerpot and across the hardened dirt.

It seems so, Nasima said, nodding sagely. But you and me, we know what’s going on.

We do, Firuzeh said, not having the faintest idea.

And when we arrive, my father will find a good job. An important job. My brothers will be kind to me instead of insufferable. And now that they don’t need to send their money home, they can buy me kilos and kilos of lollies—that’s what sweets are called there. They promised. And my mother will dye my father’s hair black again, so you can’t tell how much he worried, and I will wear the best clothes and go to the best school—

She took a breath. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining.

What about you?

That’s a dream for rich people, Firuzeh said.

Atay often said that when he came home, hands and face black with oil, before swinging Nour, then Firuzeh, around in circles. Someday silk for your mother, ice cream for you, a suit for me, and a palace for all of us—but who am I fooling? That’s a dream for—

Well, you’re no fun, Nasima said.

After nine days, Abdullah Khan returned with deep blue passports and plane tickets, which he doled out like largesse.

You’re Hungarian now, he said. A little swagger in his step. A little smirk on his lips. O what a trick, what a trickster, to treat borders like jump ropes.

This flight is to Australia? Atay said.

Ha. If we sent you direct to Australia, you’d be caught and deported at once—no good. You’re going to Jakarta. I have a friend there who’ll take care of you.

He’ll send us to Australia?

Eventually, eventually. You must trust us. We would never let anything happen to those children of yours. Look at those beautiful smiles. Imagine them safe in Australia, writing a letter to Qaqa Abdullah Khan. Thank you so much Uncle for sending us here—

Firuzeh, who had not at any point been smiling, pulled the corners of her mouth downward with her fingers.

When are we leaving? Abay said.

Now. The car’s in the courtyard.

Can we say goodbye. . .