Excerpt – The Leopard’s Daughter by David Raeburn Finn #history #military
Synopsis
Mohammed, a skilled, politically naïve Denver surgeon of Pashtun descent joins US Special Forces as a front-line medic at a secret base in Kunar, Afghanistan. His Muslim faith and background already have him on a secret CIA watch list dubbed OWL (Others Watch List). Alerted by OWL, his Afghan base commander’s suspicions become deranged as Mohammed converses and prays with, then physically defends Afghan civilian villagers against murderous company soldiers.
Mohammed survives a cross-border ambush unaware it targetted him. A passing Pashtun family is swept up and fights alongside him. His surgery saves Shahay, a knife-wielding widow of the family who’s finished two ambushers before suffering an arterial slash. Shahay’s brother invites Mohammed to their Bajaur home to oversee her recovery.
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Excerpt
Chapter 13 Lema
“The story of my takhalus, my nickname, began when I was a child. Baba brought a kitten back from his hunt in the Chitral. I thought: ‘He shows it to me, not to my brothers and sister. It’s my gift.’ I skipped after baba through the vegetable garden, under apricot and apple trees to the back of the enclosure surrounding our home. Naturally it was my role, not my siblings, to help him prepare the pen against corner walls. My eyes wouldn’t leave the animal. It was a spotted peeshu. I’d never seen a kitten so large, nor one with spots.
Baba corrected me. ‘You’re mistaken’ he said. ‘It isn’t a peeshu. It’s a baby prraang, a leopard cub.’
‘Yes. A prraang‘ I said. I pretended I knew. But how could I really know? I’d never seen one. Its eyes were different from a cat’s. I would ask Farikhta. She’d know.
“When baba left, I remained behind, peering at my pet. Baba warned me: ‘Don’t leave the pen door open.’ But I thought, I could go in and close the door. After all, it was mine. Father brought it for me. I could play with it.
“I crawled in, closing the door behind. The prraang looked soft. I wanted to stroke it.
I looked into its eyes and smiled, so it would see I was a friend. I crept closer and closer on hands and knees, silently and slowly, so as not to frighten it. It seemed to me that it smiled back. Its mouth was wide and its little teeth showed. A low rattle came from its belly. I thought it must be chuckling, speaking to me. So I spoke back. ‘I’m Shahay. You’re my pet.’
“I was so close I could touch it. Slowly, carefully, I reached. Its eyes fixed on me and grew even bigger. I didn’t know then that it saw a crawler-animal, showing teeth from an open, noisy mouth, an unknown animal with large, greedy eyes. In the voice her mother taught, the baby prraang made a different sound – a desperate squeal.
“Spotted fur flashed at my forearm tearing it with its razor claws, puncturing my finger with its needle teeth. The prraang retreated to its corner glaring at me, snarling a high pitched whine.
“I trembled, mouth open. Blood soaked my sleeve from ripped skin. My finger dripped a red pool from the punctures. I held the wounds. My eyes were full. I wiped them on my sleeves so my brothers and sister wouldn’t see. No sobs came from my mouth. I scolded the prraang. ‘I meant only to touch you. Why did you hurt me?’ I left silently, securing the gate. I thought ‘Baba will see blood, not tears.’
“Baba cleaned and bound the wounds. He was wise. He didn’t mew sympathy. Sympathy makes children soft and cowardly. He washed the blood streaked across my face where my bloody sleeve wiped the tears. He explained.
‘You say you crawled in to play. Why do you think the prraang hurt you?’
‘Is it a cruel prraang?’
‘Did it speak to you before it attacked?’
‘It made a noise. Was that its voice?’
‘Yes, a voice saying ‘Beware! I don’t know if you’re friend or foe. I’m a warrior. Come no closer or I’ll strike.’
‘Warriors are strong and brave.’
‘Always. The warrior strikes hard and endures with courage.’
About the Author
David Raeburn Finn read a BA (Hons) in Philosophy and Psychology at Queen’s University, Kingston, Ontario. Subsequently he read a PhD supported by a Canada Council Post Doctoral Fellowship at the University of London, UK. At one point he imagined he might pursue medicine. Though he completed the task of castrating a lab rat in a neurophysiology course, the experience taught him of his aversion to cutting, a fatal flaw for a physician. He has taught, operated small private businesses in construction and importing, and worked with a Vancouver hedge fund management firm.
At age seventy-one he co-published his children’s book, Poopballs Over The Shanty And Other Bedtime Stories’ (Caledon Bedtime Press Ltd, 2013) illustrated by Rae Mate. These five bedtime stories reflect his earliest memories as a child in Ontario. Each story takes 10 to 12 minutes to read aloud. The title story, Poopballs Over the Shanty, recalls the earliest outdoor game he played with his brother. “Yes, we tossed frozen horse poop over an old broken shanty,” he says. “We didn’t have rubber balls or tennis balls. Some of the horse poop was a tad fresher, so unfrozen. We found a use for that, too.”
