They'd barely made it out of Kabul. When they were caught and sent back, the mullah's son was flogged
before he repented and said that Naghma had seduced him with her feminine charms.
She'd cast a spell on him, he said. He promised he would rededicate himself to the study of the Koran.
The mullah's son was freed. Naghma was sentenced to five years.
It was just as well, she said, her being here in prison. Her father had sworn that the day she was released he would take a knife to her throat.
Listening to Naghma, Mariam remembered the dim glimmer of cold stars and the stringy pink clouds streaking over the Safid koh mountains
that long ago morning when Nana had said to her, “Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman.”
“Always. You remember that, Mariam.” Mariam's trial had taken place the week before.
There was no legal council, no public hearing, no cross examining of evidence, no appeals.
Mariam declined her right to witnesses. The entire thing lasted less than fifteen minutes.
The middle judge, a brittle looking Talib, was the leader. He was strikingly gaunt, with yellow, leathery skin and a curly red beard.
He wore eyeglasses that magnified his eyes and revealed how yellow the whites were.
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