Fish (9 page)

Dad went on, “We lost most of the water. The donkey went over the edge and I had to cut away the packs to get her back up.”

The older man sighed and shook his head, whether
in sympathy for us, or disappointment that we had no supplies to share, I couldn't tell.

The youngest man, who hadn't shown much interest so far, suddenly looked across at me, still huddled by the rock on which the Fish's bottle had stood. He said something sulkily to the others, and they too turned to look at me as if they'd only just noticed I was there.

A frown passed over Stocky's face. “He says, what has the child got there?” he explained apologetically to my mother. “He says, it looks like water.” Then he turned and said something sharply to the youngest man.

Leader approached me and Mum said, “It's all right, Tiger, show him your bottle,” in a bright kind of way which I knew was put on.

Slowly, I pulled the bottle from my chest, where I had tried to hide it, and reluctantly held it up in the light of the fire. Leader approached, curious, and asked a question in his own language.

Mum said, “That is just a fish. The child saved it from a mud puddle when we left, and carries it. There
is not much water in the bottle. And it would taste bad, I think.”

“Yes, indeed!” said Leader, in our language, and to my surprise, laughed suddenly, but in a nice way, not
at
me, and ruffled my hair. Then there was a lot of talking between the men, who looked at me and pointed as they did so.

“They think it's strange, what you're doing, but they are impressed,” Dad said to me, looking surprised himself. “They say, good for you, well done.”

I think we'd all been thinking of the Guide, in between, and at first had wondered where he was, and hoped he'd come back soon. But now we were hoping he wouldn't, if he had a rabbit or something. A rabbit hadn't gone far between four of us, and we had the feeling that these men, however friendly they seemed, might take it.

The Guide was clever. Perhaps he was watching, and waiting for the men to go.

But at that moment, the donkey, who had watched all the goings-on for a while before tucking into her
dried grass again, looked up for the second time that night and pricked her ears in the direction from which the men had come.

The older man noticed—obviously he brought more to his job as leader than a bigger beard—and grabbed hold of his gun again and turned around. The other men immediately did the same.

“It's all right, it's all right, it's just our Guide,” said Mum and Dad together, stepping toward them, and Stocky said something to the other two, presumably repeating what they were saying, but they all remained with their guns pointing in the direction of the donkey's stare. She gave a little wheezy greeting, hardly a bray, as we saw the Guide materialize, then pause. He said something, in a very calm voice, and the guns were lowered again.

The men drew aside to let him pass through them and join my anxious parents by the fire. He had something swinging in his hand, but it was something earthy, and looked like a lump of old wood, not a rabbit.

Dad introduced him, using the Guide's proper name, which I could not pronounce, and the men immediately looked suspicious again.

“That cannot be,” explained Stocky, as if Dad had made some mistake. “This name, the whole family were killed.”

There was more talk between the men, while the Guide stood quietly, saying nothing.

Leader asked him something, and the Guide simply said his own name again, insistently, and looked at them all calmly.

Then the youngest one said something firmly and stepped forward into the firelight, near the Guide, as if he would put an end to all this nonsense.

Stocky said to my parents, “He says he knew the family well. He would know.”

Silence fell. The fire did not seem to crackle, and the donkey stood soundless and unmoving as a statue.

The bored-looking young man stared deep into the face of the Guide, doubtfully, and said something
brief, dismissive. I noticed his hand was resting on his rifle again, and his fingers stayed close to the trigger.

The Guide looked as deeply back into the eyes of the other, and gently said something that might have been the young man's name and then what sounded like a question.

How can the Guide talk to a man with a gun in that way—as if he were speaking to a frightened child? I thought. If he tries to shoot the Guide, I thought, I will dive for his legs. I will thump and bite and scratch. …

In the white-orange glow of the fire, we saw the young man's face change. Miraculously, it changed.

From blank and bored, his face now showed a bewildering range of emotions. Have you ever watched the shadows of clouds when they race across the land in the sun? That's what it was like, seeing his expression change, every part of a second. Incredulous, wondering, relieved, sad, confused, happy. For a moment, he seemed speechless. When at last he spoke, his
voice came out dry and shaky, and he only seemed to say one word. I wished I understood.

He made as if to throw his arms around the Guide, then suddenly seemed to change his mind and dropped them by his sides and backed away.

Leader looked at him as if he had gone mad, and asked him something sharply. The other answered in a low voice, still seeming shocked and unable to take his eyes from the Guide, who smiled rather sadly, saying nothing.

Stocky said quietly to us, “He says, he was a good man. No, now he says, he
is
a good man. I don't know what's got into him.”

Leader looked exasperatedly at his men, then glanced at the earthy thing in the Guide's hand and muttered in a grumpy way. Stocky said, “He says, if you're going to eat
that,
you definitely don't have anything else. He is sorry if we have disturbed you.”

With that, there was a rapid goodbye, especially from the young man who had looked bored, but now just looked slightly frightened, and the three left.

We all looked at each other, especially at the Guide, who tried to act as if nothing unusual had happened, but sat down on a rock near the fire and started scraping at the earthy lump he'd brought, with his knife. I eyed it with suspicion. What did the men mean, we obviously had nothing else to eat or we wouldn't be eating
that
?

The Guide felt my eyes upon him.

“It's a root. I would normally boil it, but there isn't enough water. We have to cook it in the fire, and it will take a long time. Don't worry, it doesn't taste bad. It just doesn't taste of much, that's all.”

“Thank you, thank you for finding anything at all,” said Mum quickly, throwing me one of her looks.

I didn't want to seem ungrateful.

“Yes, thank you, I
am
hungry,” I said.

Dad squatted down next to the Guide and picked at the bits he was shaving off the lump.

Quietly he asked, “What was the matter with that man?”

“My family died, he believes I am dead too. All this
time. I went away for a while, he has not seen me, why should he think otherwise? He was pleased to see me, I think.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact way. He kept his head down, concentrating on his work, so did not notice Dad looking across the fire at me and Mum.

We were all thinking the same thing. Pleased, maybe, but also afraid. Why?

However, none of us was going to be impolite enough to carry on discussing something that the Guide obviously didn't want to talk about, and with the men's departure relief washed over us and made us realize that we were all very tired.

I carefully put my Fish, in his bottle, on the rock again, and snuggled down inside my blankets. The root would take ages to cook, said Mum, so we might as well sleep a little and wake and eat it when it was ready. “Like a midnight feast!” she said cheerfully.

Nothing eventful happened that night. Being woken up in the middle of it to eat a strange, baked root might seem unusual in the normal run of things, but after our adventures it was just another irritation.

The Guide had been right—the root didn't taste unpleasant, it just didn't taste of much at all. I would say, it tasted like boiled potato with nothing to flavor it, but had the texture of a rather gluey carrot. But then it made you realize how much taste a potato really has.

I had treated potatoes badly. I had argued with Mum about finishing them up. Now I imagined the taste and it seemed wonderful. I swore if she gave me a big plate of them when we got out of this, I would eat every last one and never complain again.

Just to add a little spice to the meal, there were bits of bonfire stuck over the root. The Guide laughed at
me as he saw me trying to pick off the specks of black, and spit them out when they crunched in my teeth.

“Good for the stomach,” he said. “Makes sure you don't have an ache from eating the root.”

I didn't know about that. I reckoned I was going to wake the next morning with the same dull ache I'd had for days. The only good thing about hunger is, you can't tell if you've got indigestion.

As I dropped back to sleep that night, I listened to Dad and the Guide murmuring away in their deep, low voices. It was a comfortable sound to hear as you drifted off, I thought, and suddenly realized that I would miss it when this journey was over, if nothing else.

But tonight, something the Guide said left me with an uncomfortable feeling.

Dad said, “Well, that's the last we'll see of those men, I expect. They seemed a bit—” I don't know if he was going to say “scared” or “disappointed” because the Guide interrupted.

“I wouldn't be so sure of that, not that you should worry unduly,” he said slowly.

“Why would they bother with us, now they know we haven't got anything?” Dad asked, with a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“There are rumors—I admit I did not say earlier— the guards at the border told me when they could not let us pass—but there was nothing to be done, so no point in frightening anyone. …”

I'd never heard the Guide sound so awkward and it was obviously as disturbing to Dad as it was me. I heard him sit up abruptly.

“
What,
for Heaven's sake?”

The Guide made a shushing sound because my dad's voice had got louder. I made sure I looked very asleep.

After a pause, the Guide continued.

“Some of the mountain men are looking out for hostages—but they need ones from the right countries, to use as a lever on those countries to intervene, perhaps, in the fighting. I felt these men were just checking. You might be valuable. We must stay close together and keep our eyes open from now on.”

“Oh no,” Dad groaned, and I heard him slump back on the cold ground. “What do you propose? I mean, we haven't any weapons.”

“Stick with me. I know these mountains” was all the Guide said.

I thought I would never get to sleep, but the stab of worry in my stomach just melted in with the general ache, and my body was so tired that sleep must have taken over, so before I knew it, it was morning.

I yawned and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes—no washing now for days, because of the water—and screwed the top back on the Fish's bottle. He circled around a few times.

“At least your eyes aren't gritty,” I told him, “and I'm sorry if you're hungry, but you didn't miss anything by not sharing tea last night.”

Dad gave my bottom a shove with his foot as he passed, carrying a pack to the donkey.

“Stop grumbling, grouch,” he said, grinning, “by nightfall we'll be over the border.”

He whistled around cheerfully, and his mood was
infectious. I put the worry of what I'd heard out of my mind. Me and Mum stamped out the fire and rolled up the last blankets with more energy than we thought we had. The Guide, however, still had his serious face on.

Dad went over, as he did every morning, to pretend to help the Guide load the donkey. What he really did was stand watching, while rubbing the donkey's long ears, and scratching between her eyes, and talking to her.

“Soon be over,” he told her, “and you can have a rest. Do you think it will be straightforward enough, going down?”

The Guide never seemed to be confused as to when Dad was speaking to the donkey, or speaking to him.

“I have always said, it will not be easy,” he answered. “You have seen all the way, how the earth has slipped. We do have a very narrow stream of mud to cross—we can almost jump it. After that, well, it is a little steeper on the way down, and I think we'll find that the path will have gone completely. But we will
make it by nightfall, certainly. The end of the journey always seems the hardest, after all.”

Those words were to stay with me throughout that last day.

Once prepared, we looked around for the path. We'd camped on the flattened-out area, where the path just petered out. Which direction?

The Guide, almost apologetically, led us to the edge, which dropped away in front of us.

“Down there?” asked Dad, incredulous.

The Guide pointed to the right-hand edge, the side where the donkey had nearly gone off the path.

“That way—the gorge. That way”—here he pointed to the left—“the very top of the mountain.”

“
That
way,” Dad interrupted him, pointing straight in front of us, off the edge of the flattened area, “down. OK, OK. We'll manage.”

I looked over. There was a narrow path at first, and surprisingly, a few trees, scrub and bushes—almost a wood. The path reappeared further down, looking a
bit boggy where it ran alongside a narrow ribbon of mud, which must have been a stream during the rains.

In the wall of the mountain, to one side of it, there were the black mouths of caves.

“Remember,” said the Guide, looking very serious and fixing each one of us with his steady look, “if anything happens—stick together, stick with me.”

I felt a bad feeling in my stomach again. I looked at Mum. It didn't seem right that she was the only one who didn't know about the men. I decided that it was up to the Guide and Dad to decide whom they told and whom they didn't. I shouldn't have been listening anyway. For all I knew, Mum had been listening too— not much got past her, in my experience.