Read Online The Splendor Of Silence by Indu Sundaresan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Indu Sundaresan
Ads: Link
five days. He also knows of her stubbornness, her will--these he has read about in a report. When the Japanese came to Burma, Marianne Westwood, formerly of New Jersey, all but forgotten by any who knew her as a child, suddenly became a POI--a person of importance--for she was the only American missionary in Burma who would not leave. Her hair is cut short, shorter than Sam's, close-cropped to her head. It is almost all white too, a blaze of noncolor against skin brushed with a palette of browns over the years. She wears, incongruously, diamond earrings in her little and perfectly shaped ears.
"Not a one," she says with the smile of an imp, which sheds years from her face. "I'm a terrible failure. In that first year"--she looks down at her hands--"it seemed as though Joseph was going to have some success. They listened so politely, were so patient with us " She turns to her right and gently shifts Ken's head from her shoulder, where he has been resting it in a pooling circle of sweat that is soaked into her shirt.
He jerks awake and sits up. "Sorry, did I fall asleep?"
"Every time we halt, you fall asleep," Sam says with a grin. "It must be a propensity of the idle--this ability to sleep at every stop."
"Don't tease the poor child, Captain Hawthorne," Marianne says as she rubs Ken's face with the back of her hand.
"The poor child, as you call him, flew his plane into a hillside and so he's here with us instead of back in Assam, drowning himself in beers with his buddies. It was a good thing I parachuted out first." Sam mock-glowers at Ken. "I should have left you by the crash site; my orders were only to bring Marianne out."
Both of them ignore Sam, and Marianne Westwood leans toward Ken and says in a gentle voice, "Does your leg hurt?"
"Only a little, Mrs. West-wood," Ken says, his voice aching and youthful, and at the same time with an edge of laughter directed at Sam. She bends over to check on the rancid bandages around Ken's foot and ankle. While she is thus engrossed, Sam swats in the air at Ken, and then sobers into silence as the boy winces at Marianne 's touch. What lies under that bandage, Sam does not even want to think about. It has been five days since he last wrapped that foot; the dressings should have been changed every day, at least every day, if not every time they were drenched by the rains. But they are right now guardians of their very lives; a foot seems a little enough sacrifice.
Ken is not even supposed to be here with them. He piloted the plane that dropped Sam into the Burmese jungles in his mission to find and coax Marianne Westwood to safety. And just as Ken was lifting off above the trees, in a strange perversity of nature on an otherwise calm day, a massive wind buffeted the plane and plunged it into the hillside. Sam, watching that explosion of fire and heat, his heart crashing, sees a parachute struggle to open in the sky as Ken comes down. The forest mostly cushions his fall, shatters only his right ankle. The navigation officer in the plane is not so lucky. Sam drags his body from the crash debris and buries him in a shallow grave. He does not weep even as Marianne sings out a few prayers into the clean forest air, even though this is his first encounter with death in the war.
Another ten minutes, Sam thinks, before they have to move on. At the last supply drop, they had instructions to head to the Chindwin. By Sam's calculations, a hundred and fifty miles of mountains, bush, rivers, monsoon forest, and contingents of the Japanese army lie between them and India and freedom. And there are just three of them. Ken is almost incapacitated by his smashed ankle--they cannot carry him, so he walks on broken bones, with even the idea of pain long anesthetized. Under the surface of her good humor, Marianne carries, imprinted on her for life, pictures of the Japanese slaughter of the entire Kachin village that she had once called home--she could have better handled walking on two broken legs
"Not a one," she says with the smile of an imp, which sheds years from her face. "I'm a terrible failure. In that first year"--she looks down at her hands--"it seemed as though Joseph was going to have some success. They listened so politely, were so patient with us " She turns to her right and gently shifts Ken's head from her shoulder, where he has been resting it in a pooling circle of sweat that is soaked into her shirt.
He jerks awake and sits up. "Sorry, did I fall asleep?"
"Every time we halt, you fall asleep," Sam says with a grin. "It must be a propensity of the idle--this ability to sleep at every stop."
"Don't tease the poor child, Captain Hawthorne," Marianne says as she rubs Ken's face with the back of her hand.
"The poor child, as you call him, flew his plane into a hillside and so he's here with us instead of back in Assam, drowning himself in beers with his buddies. It was a good thing I parachuted out first." Sam mock-glowers at Ken. "I should have left you by the crash site; my orders were only to bring Marianne out."
Both of them ignore Sam, and Marianne Westwood leans toward Ken and says in a gentle voice, "Does your leg hurt?"
"Only a little, Mrs. West-wood," Ken says, his voice aching and youthful, and at the same time with an edge of laughter directed at Sam. She bends over to check on the rancid bandages around Ken's foot and ankle. While she is thus engrossed, Sam swats in the air at Ken, and then sobers into silence as the boy winces at Marianne 's touch. What lies under that bandage, Sam does not even want to think about. It has been five days since he last wrapped that foot; the dressings should have been changed every day, at least every day, if not every time they were drenched by the rains. But they are right now guardians of their very lives; a foot seems a little enough sacrifice.
Ken is not even supposed to be here with them. He piloted the plane that dropped Sam into the Burmese jungles in his mission to find and coax Marianne Westwood to safety. And just as Ken was lifting off above the trees, in a strange perversity of nature on an otherwise calm day, a massive wind buffeted the plane and plunged it into the hillside. Sam, watching that explosion of fire and heat, his heart crashing, sees a parachute struggle to open in the sky as Ken comes down. The forest mostly cushions his fall, shatters only his right ankle. The navigation officer in the plane is not so lucky. Sam drags his body from the crash debris and buries him in a shallow grave. He does not weep even as Marianne sings out a few prayers into the clean forest air, even though this is his first encounter with death in the war.
Another ten minutes, Sam thinks, before they have to move on. At the last supply drop, they had instructions to head to the Chindwin. By Sam's calculations, a hundred and fifty miles of mountains, bush, rivers, monsoon forest, and contingents of the Japanese army lie between them and India and freedom. And there are just three of them. Ken is almost incapacitated by his smashed ankle--they cannot carry him, so he walks on broken bones, with even the idea of pain long anesthetized. Under the surface of her good humor, Marianne carries, imprinted on her for life, pictures of the Japanese slaughter of the entire Kachin village that she had once called home--she could have better handled walking on two broken legs
Similar Books
