who are not continuing.”
“They will not live long.”
“The boy needs to eat.”
“The boy. The boy.”
“I cannot go on.”
“When we stop I will make a fire, catch a rabbit.”
She knew he had no strength to hunt rabbits. “I am ill and will never again see our village.”
“Stop!” he ordered her, glancing fearfully around. “When the spirits hear such talk they know immediately where to go.”
“I am an old woman and with me they have known a long time where to go.”
“If they come to you they will notice me.”
“Are you afraid? How many times have you told me you are not afraid?”
“They will notice the boy.”
That silenced her.
“Climb into the cart,” the old man said.
“Ah, no.” She was ashamed.
“Climb in, woman.”
“I will not.”
“What can I do for the boy if you are ill?”
She considered that and a moment later climbed in. The old man pulled the cart along the narrow path through the valley.
She lay shivering next to the boy. The pain in herstomach frightened her. She trembled violently and felt the boy move close against her, giving her of his warmth. He drew the top of the sleeping bag over their heads and they lay in the darkness.
The war was now far behind them and they could no longer hear it.
In the evening the old man made a fire and tried to cook a soup of snow and grass. There was a taste in it of earth and stone. The woman could not eat and sat bent over outside the rim of firelight, vomiting. The old man sat in the heat of the fire. The boy squatted on the other side of the fire, away from the man, and listened to the sounds the woman made. What will I do if the woman dies and the man sends me away?
But the woman did not die. In the morning she walked on trembling legs alongside the cart and in the afternoon they reached a broad plain and the man, gathering brushwood, stumbled upon a small rabbit, which the woman skinned and roasted that night. The three of them sat around the fire, eating.
Hundreds were scattered throughout the plain in the frozen night. There were fires all through the plain and no sound of the war. No one seemed to know with certainty where they were going. It was rumored there was a huge refugee camp with food and warm tents somewhere beyond the next range of hills.
In the morning the old man was sick with cramps and fever. He pulled the cart together with the woman until his arms and legs grew numb. They were on acart path in a narrow valley. Caves pocked the sides of the hills.
The old man lay in the cart, pulled by the woman and the boy. I will die here in this cart behind this woman I no longer know and this boy who is a stranger. This cart will be my deathbed and this valley my grave. For this all the offerings to the spirits. For this all the festivals to the ancestors. For this all the gifts to the ghosts.
After a while the woman and the boy could no longer pull the cart with the old man. They stood alongside the cart, bent and trembling with exhaustion. Then they dragged the cart to the side of the path and squatted beside it.
All the rest of the day refugees flowed past them without stopping. So many. The woman had not thought the war had undone so many. Each with eyes fixed upon the ground. Men beneath A-frames. Women with children strapped to their backs and bundles on their heads. Sighs, moans, a cry from a child. Carts, wagons, a few oxen. No one spoke to the woman or the boy. The old man raised his head from time to time and watched them going by.
The air was clear and bitter cold. The sky, a deep icy blue, faded slowly into evening.
The old man was barely conscious when the last of the refugees straggled past. Stars began to appear. A partial moon glided across the jagged tops of distant mountains. By its ghostly light the old man saw the shadowy figures of the woman and the boy as they stood alongside the cart looking at him.
BOOK TWO
3
Slowly, by the light of the climbing moon, the woman and the boy
“They will not live long.”
“The boy needs to eat.”
“The boy. The boy.”
“I cannot go on.”
“When we stop I will make a fire, catch a rabbit.”
She knew he had no strength to hunt rabbits. “I am ill and will never again see our village.”
“Stop!” he ordered her, glancing fearfully around. “When the spirits hear such talk they know immediately where to go.”
“I am an old woman and with me they have known a long time where to go.”
“If they come to you they will notice me.”
“Are you afraid? How many times have you told me you are not afraid?”
“They will notice the boy.”
That silenced her.
“Climb into the cart,” the old man said.
“Ah, no.” She was ashamed.
“Climb in, woman.”
“I will not.”
“What can I do for the boy if you are ill?”
She considered that and a moment later climbed in. The old man pulled the cart along the narrow path through the valley.
She lay shivering next to the boy. The pain in herstomach frightened her. She trembled violently and felt the boy move close against her, giving her of his warmth. He drew the top of the sleeping bag over their heads and they lay in the darkness.
The war was now far behind them and they could no longer hear it.
In the evening the old man made a fire and tried to cook a soup of snow and grass. There was a taste in it of earth and stone. The woman could not eat and sat bent over outside the rim of firelight, vomiting. The old man sat in the heat of the fire. The boy squatted on the other side of the fire, away from the man, and listened to the sounds the woman made. What will I do if the woman dies and the man sends me away?
But the woman did not die. In the morning she walked on trembling legs alongside the cart and in the afternoon they reached a broad plain and the man, gathering brushwood, stumbled upon a small rabbit, which the woman skinned and roasted that night. The three of them sat around the fire, eating.
Hundreds were scattered throughout the plain in the frozen night. There were fires all through the plain and no sound of the war. No one seemed to know with certainty where they were going. It was rumored there was a huge refugee camp with food and warm tents somewhere beyond the next range of hills.
In the morning the old man was sick with cramps and fever. He pulled the cart together with the woman until his arms and legs grew numb. They were on acart path in a narrow valley. Caves pocked the sides of the hills.
The old man lay in the cart, pulled by the woman and the boy. I will die here in this cart behind this woman I no longer know and this boy who is a stranger. This cart will be my deathbed and this valley my grave. For this all the offerings to the spirits. For this all the festivals to the ancestors. For this all the gifts to the ghosts.
After a while the woman and the boy could no longer pull the cart with the old man. They stood alongside the cart, bent and trembling with exhaustion. Then they dragged the cart to the side of the path and squatted beside it.
All the rest of the day refugees flowed past them without stopping. So many. The woman had not thought the war had undone so many. Each with eyes fixed upon the ground. Men beneath A-frames. Women with children strapped to their backs and bundles on their heads. Sighs, moans, a cry from a child. Carts, wagons, a few oxen. No one spoke to the woman or the boy. The old man raised his head from time to time and watched them going by.
The air was clear and bitter cold. The sky, a deep icy blue, faded slowly into evening.
The old man was barely conscious when the last of the refugees straggled past. Stars began to appear. A partial moon glided across the jagged tops of distant mountains. By its ghostly light the old man saw the shadowy figures of the woman and the boy as they stood alongside the cart looking at him.
BOOK TWO
3
Slowly, by the light of the climbing moon, the woman and the boy
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