Taj watched Jake come for his sister. There was a look in the boy’s eyes that had not been there before, one that Taj recognised all too well. He wasn’t surprised to see it there, but it did sadden him.
‘Come on, Abbey,’ said Jake. ‘We’re going home.’
‘But there are still more chickens.’
‘Mum says you have to come, right now.’
Abbey set her jaw into a stubborn line, and for a moment looked ready to argue. Then she handed the hen on her lap over to Taj. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Abbey.’
The child blew him a kiss and Jake scowled. ‘Take care of the chickens for me.’
‘I will, little one.’ The hen in his arms clucked softly. Taj stroked her ruffled red feathers and gently put her down as the children ran off. Their mother, Kim, was staring in his direction, distracting him, making it hard to return to his task.
He stole another look. Kim was tall and graceful, with pale-gold hair the colour of ripening grain. She had a fair complexion, like the women from his home province of Nuristan who were renowned for their beauty. Like Camila. But it wasn’t Kim’s physical beauty that drew him to her. It was the depth of sorrow in her eyes.
Taj pushed thoughts of Kim aside and hefted his hammer. Time to finish the nest box. Working with wood was better than working with people. Wood was warm and honest, its life truly recorded in the grain. His father, Kadir, who died when Taj was twelve, had been a master wood-carver. More than that, he was an artist and wood his medium. He taught Taj to value pattern and texture, to imagine the tables and chairs hidden in raw lumber.
Taj sorted through the pile of offcuts, and chose a few likely pieces to whittle later on. Kadir had liked to carve statuettes, miniatures of Nuristani deities banned by the Taliban. Taj sometimes entertained himself at night by carving such figurines.
Curious hens gathered round. Building chicken coops was a far cry from his father’s skilled craftsmanship, but it was good, honest work. And besides, Taj had never shared Kadir’s passion for timber. From the very first his heart had belonged to the living forests and wildlife of his home.
Ariana, the remote and beautiful village where he was born, stood perched on the edge of Afghanistan’s last great wilderness. It was a charmed place, a Shangri-La, protected for centuries by inaccessible terrain, and far enough east to be watered by India’s summer monsoon. These southern slopes of the Hindu Kush were as lush as Helmand and Kandahar were dry. His uncle grew shady orchards of mulberries and walnuts. His grandfather grazed flocks of fat-tailed sheep on peaceful alpine pastures, watched over by Kuchis, the fearless livestock guardian dogs of northern Afghanistan. Wood-carvers and carpet-weavers traded their wares in the southern city of Jalalabad. To the north lay vast stands of oak, cedar and pine. They reached all the way to the snow-capped summits and craggy passes of the Pamir Mountains, known as the roof of the world. Next stop, China. Snow leopards and bears still roamed these wild forests. Wolves too.
Taj gazed up at the peaks of Tarringtops, all clothed in green, and inhaled a steadying lungful of air. It was these mountains that had drawn him to Tingo. They reminded him of home. In their shadow he did not feel so alone.
Taj nailed the last few planks onto the coop and collected his tools. One by one he picked up the hens and released them into their new house. ‘Ladies, what do you think, eh?’
Kim’s blue station wagon drove past. She didn’t like him, didn’t trust him – he could tell. Why did he care so much about what this woman thought? He was due to start work on her house next Monday – that was it. So much easier if they could get on. Taj waved goodbye to the kids in the playground. Forget about Kim. He had to meet with Melanie Masters, and see how her maremmas were working out.
Mel had brought two livestock guardian dogs from him after foxes caused heavy lamb losses. Taj was proud of Sultan, the older dog, who was already fully embedded with her sheep. On regular field checks, he’d seen for himself how completely Sultan blended with the flock. On the last visit, the dog had not acknowledged his former master at all. Instead Taj was greeted with a protective volley of barking.
Hopefully Mel’s new pup, Snow, was doing as well. The critical thing in training a guardian dog was to properly bond it to the animals it was meant to protect. The puppy must feel part of the flock and the flock must feel the same way. It was a dual process. Taj had helped Mel set up a large yard with a few orphan lambs, where Snow was to live twenty-four hours a day.
Snow had a few tests to pass. She should be sleeping curled up with the lambs. She should never avoid or run away from them, and a visitor should see her standing with the flock. She should tolerate the lambs nuzzling her, and lick their faces in return. Finally, she should be reluctant to leave them.
Taj had rung several times, offering to help Mel with any training issues, but apparently all was going well. If only more local graziers would embrace the concept of guardian dogs. Maremmas were cheaper, more efficient, and far more humane than haphazard baiting programs, like the ones that had wiped out dingoes from Tarringtops.
Taj had lost his first maremma dog, gentle Farah, to a 1080 bait. Such a cruel and harrowing death. When she collapsed with seizures, Taj had lifted her into the car and headed for the vet in Wingham. There was no antidote. He would never forget her fear and pain, or the wave of relief when an injection finished her suffering. Bush animals could expect no such mercy.