Bronze and Sunflower Page 2

  But the ducks had more heart. They headed over to the little boat as fast as they could. When Gayu saw this, he dug up a lump of mud with his shovel, then grabbed the handle with both hands, raised it high above him, thrust his shoulders back and his chest forward, and hurled the mud into the air. It landed with a splat! right in front of the furthest duck. Startled, the duck turned, flapping its wings and quacking angrily before swimming off in the opposite direction. The other ducks made a similar fuss and followed it. Sunflower looked around her. She couldn’t see another soul, and began to cry.

  Gayu turned and went into the reeds. He pulled out a long bamboo pole, which the boat’s owner had probably hidden, afraid that someone might make off with his boat. Then, walking along the bank, he gestured that he was going to throw the pole to Sunflower. Her teary eyes blurred with gratitude.

  When he was directly above the little boat, Gayu slid down the embankment to the shore. He stepped into the river, laid the bamboo pole on the water and gave it a light push so that the end was almost touching the boat. Sunflower leant over and reached for it. Just as she was about to grasp the pole, he laughed and slowly pulled it back. She looked at him, her hands empty, drops of water falling from her fingertips into the river.

  Gayu waded through the shallows and pushed the pole towards her again. He did the same thing over and over, pushing the pole as close as he could, then pulling it away just as she reached for it. Sunflower struggled to hold back her tears.

  Finally, Gayu gestured that this time he would give her the pole. She believed him. As it came towards her, she leant over as far as she could, but Gayu jerked it back and she almost fell in. He roared with laughter. Sunflower sat back in the boat and sobbed.

  Seeing that the ducks had swum quite a long way off, Gayu pushed one end of the pole into the shore and used it to climb up the embankment. With two or three strides he was back on the bank again. He glanced at Sunflower one last time, pulled the pole out of the mud, tossed it into the reeds and, without looking back, went hurrying after his flock.

  The little boat, angled sideways so it was facing the bank, started drifting downstream. The old elm became smaller and smaller. The red-tiled roofs of the Cadre School gradually disappeared behind the thousands of reeds. Sunflower was numb with fear. She sat in the boat, tears streaming silently down her face. The green haze before her seemed to spill out of the sky and grow ever wider and mistier. She wondered how much further she would drift.

  Occasionally another boat passed by, but Sunflower barely moved. She didn’t stand up and wave her arms or shout. At most she gave a little wave. The people in the boats assumed she was a child having fun on the river and didn’t pay too much attention. If any of them did wonder, they still carried on their way.

  Sunflower was still crying, quietly calling for her father. A solitary white bird flew out from the reeds. It seemed to sense something and hovered above the water, low and calm, not far from the little boat. Sunflower looked at its long wings and the fine feathers on its breast that ruffled in the breeze; its slim neck, yellow beak and bright red feet. From time to time, it cocked its head to one side and peered at her with brown eyes.

  The boat drifted on the water; the bird flew in the sky. Between heaven and earth all was peaceful and quiet.

  Then, unexpectedly, the bird landed on the boat. It was a big bird, and it looked proud and haughty. Sunflower watched it calmly, as though she had known it for a long time. They looked at each other, at ease. Neither made a sound. There was just the gurgling of the river.

  But the bird couldn’t stay with her. It had to be on its way. It nodded gracefully, flapped its wings, leant forward and flew off towards the south. Sunflower watched it disappear into the distance, then turned to look downstream. The water stretched as far as the horizon. Tears filled her eyes again.

  Not far away, on the grassy shore, a boy was grazing his buffalo, cutting grass while the beast ate. He noticed the little boat adrift on the river and stopped what he was doing. He stood there quietly, his scythe in his hand, watching it.

  Sunflower had noticed the boy and his buffalo too. Although she couldn’t see his face clearly, suddenly she felt a sense of relief, and hope welled up in her heart. She stood up and looked at him.

  The river breeze ruffled the boy’s scruffy black hair, which kept falling over his face. His eyes were sparkling, and as the little boat came closer, his heart beat faster. The buffalo, which had a fine pair of long horns, stopped grazing and stood with its master, gazing at the little girl on the little boat.

  The boy could see right away what had happened. As the boat came closer he picked the buffalo’s rope from the ground and walked it slowly to the water’s edge, keeping level with the boat.

  Sunflower had stopped crying. The tear tracks running down her face had dried in the wind and felt tight on her skin.

  The boy grabbed the long hair on the buffalo’s back and swung himself up. Astride the animal, he looked down at the river, the boat and the girl. Sunflower had to raise her head to see him: he was framed by blue sky and soft white clouds. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly, but they seemed to be especially bright, like the stars at night.

  Sunflower knew in her heart that this boy would rescue her. She hadn’t called out to him. She hadn’t made any gestures asking for help. She had just stood on the boat, watching him. The look in her eyes was enough.

  The boy gave the buffalo a hard slap on the rump, and it walked obediently into the river. Sunflower watched the boy and buffalo sink lower into the water with every step the buffalo took. Soon the beast was submerged, save for its ears, nose, eyes and the ridge of its spine, which were just visible above the water level. The boy kept the lead tight. His trousers were soaked.

  The boat and the buffalo, and the boy and the girl, drew closer.

  The boy’s eyes were so big and so bright – Sunflower would remember them for the rest of her life. As the buffalo neared the little boat, it flapped its ears, splashing water over Sunflower. She squeezed her eyes shut and put her hands up to shield her face. When she removed them and opened her eyes again, the boy and the buffalo were already at the back of the boat. He leant over and deftly grabbed the rope that was floating in the water. There was a slight jolt, and the little boat stopped drifting.

  The boy tied the rope around the buffalo’s horns and motioned for Sunflower to sit down. Then he patted the buffalo’s head a few times and it set off back to shore, the boy on its back and Sunflower sitting in the boat behind them.

  For a while, the buffalo and the boy’s legs were still underwater. Sunflower looked at the boy’s back – so straight, so strong – and the back of his head, so shiny, so round. The buffalo pushed through the river. The water parted at its head, rejoined over its back, parted again around the boy, then flowed together over the buffalo’s rump before slapping against the boat.

  The buffalo led the boat at a steady pace upriver, back towards the old elm. Sunflower’s terror had dissolved. She sat in the boat, excited by the river scenery before her. The glints of sunlight on the water rippled into a golden glow that rose and fell with the river. The reeds on either side were bathed in sunlight too. When a cloud moved in front of the sun, the sky would darken, the golden glow would vanish and the river would be an expanse of dark blue water. But when the cloud moved on, the reeds would glow brighter and sharper, more dazzling than before. If smaller clouds drifted in front of the sun, stripes would appear across the reed lands: bright emerald in the sunlight, dark green in the shade. The reeds in the distance looked black. The clouds, the sunshine, the water and the never-ending reeds were changing with every second. Sunflower was enchanted.

  Then the buffalo huffed, reminding her where she was. A long reed with a feathery panicle came floating down the river. The boy leant forward, grabbed it and held it upright. It looked like a giant ink brush with its wet tip pointing to the sky. In the breeze, the wet tip loosened and began to fluff out, catching the light with a silv
er shimmer. The boy held it up like a flag.

  As they neared the old elm, Gayu and his flock of ducks appeared. He was on a flat duck-keeper’s boat with a long pole and could go anywhere he liked. At the sight of the buffalo and the little boat, he doubled over with laughter, his deep throaty laughs matching the guttural quacking of his drakes. He lay on his side in the boat, propping up his head on his hand and watched them go by: the boat, the buffalo, the boy, the girl.

  The boy did not even glance at Gayu. His only concern was to keep steady on the buffalo, to drive it forward and to tow the little boat to the old elm. Sunflower’s father was standing under the tree, watching anxiously. Once at the shore the boy stood on the buffalo’s back and tied the boat to the tree. Then he climbed down, grabbed the side of the boat and pulled it close to the bank.

  Sunflower jumped out and clambered up the slope towards her father, who leant forward and reached down to her. The earth was loose and Sunflower struggled to keep her footing. The boy came over and gave her a big shove from behind. Her hands met her father’s, and with one pull she was on the bank.

  Clutching her father’s hand, she looked at the boy and at the buffalo and the boat. Tears ran down her face. Her father sank to his knees, wrapped his arms around her and patted her reassuringly. Then he noticed the boy was looking up at them. A strange feeling took hold of him, and his hand froze on Sunflower’s back.

  The boy turned and began to walk back towards the buffalo.

  “What’s your name, child?” Sunflower’s father asked.

  The boy looked back at Sunflower and her father but said nothing.

  “What’s your name?” Sunflower’s father asked again.

  The boy suddenly went red, lowered his head and walked away.

  “He’s called Bronze. He can’t speak. He’s a mute!” yelled Gayu.

  The boy climbed onto the buffalo and drove it back into the water. Sunflower and her father watched him go.

  On the path back to the Cadre School, Sunflower’s father seemed lost in thought. They had almost arrived, when suddenly he grabbed her hand and hurried back to the riverside. The boy and his buffalo were gone. Gayu and his ducks were gone too. There was just the open river flowing on.

  That evening, when he was putting out the light, Sunflower’s father said, “I can’t believe how much he looked like your brother.”

  Sunflower had heard her father talk about her brother before. He had died of meningitis when he was three. She had never met him; it had been before she was born. She nestled her head against her father’s arm and stared into the dark for a long time.

  In the distance she could hear the faint sound of the river and the dogs barking in Damaidi.

  Sunflower Fields

  It had happened the year Bronze turned five. He’d been swept from his bed in the middle of the night and had felt himself jiggling up and down in his mother’s arms, vaguely aware of her hurried breathing. But it was the cold, rich air of the late autumn night that woke him. An air filled with terror.

  He saw the sky as red as the morning sunrise. He heard dogs barking for miles around. There were wails and screams, and pounding footsteps. Panic and chaos shattered the peace.

  “The reeds are on fire! The reeds are on fire!” people shouted until they were hoarse.

  The villagers ran from their homes to the safety of the river. Parents carried their infants; older siblings took the little ones by the hand; adults helped the elderly to walk or carried them on their backs.

  As they fled the village, Bronze saw the crimson beasts hissing and screaming, lashing out at Damaidi, and buried his head in his mother’s chest.

  “Don’t be frightened,” she said. She could feel him shaking, and patted him gently as she ran. He could hear children crying.

  There hadn’t been time to untie the buffaloes from their posts. As the fire glowed in the night sky, the beasts struggled for their lives. Some uprooted the tethering posts, others managed to escape the rope through their noses. Those that broke free charged off into the wild.

  Chickens and ducks flapped about in the sky. Pigs squealed and ran amok. Goats and sheep rushed with the crowd to the river, or ran wildly around the fields. One child saw two goats heading for the fire and, thinking they belonged to his family, raced to save them. He was hauled back. “Do you want to die with them?” shouted an adult. The helpless child watched in tears as the animals ran into the flames.

  Bronze’s father took the water buffalo and nothing else. It was a strong, obedient creature that had come to them as a calf, covered in sores. They’d treated it well, given it the sweetest grass, washed it every day in fresh water from the river, picked medicinal herbs and pounded them to a liquid to smear on its sores. The sores had healed quickly, and since then its coat had been sleek and glossy. It didn’t charge off like the other buffaloes, but followed calmly behind its master. They were a family, and in times of crisis, a family sticks together. Bronze’s grandmother, Nainai, walked slowly, and every so often the buffalo stopped to wait for her. The five of them – Bronze in his mother’s arms, his father, Nainai and the buffalo – walked together, and if other people wanted to go faster, they and their livestock had to pass around them.

  Now and again Bronze would peer out. He saw the fire reaching the edge of the village, the first buildings turning gold in the light of the flames. The dry reeds burned furiously, spitting and popping like firecrackers. Some chickens flew too close, flashed gold for a moment, then fell into the ashes. A rabbit darted in front of the fire. As it dodged the flickering tongues, its shadow loomed as large as a leaping horse. Then it vanished; the fire had swallowed it up. Soon those buildings had caught alight. A flock of ducks rose into the air: some were caught in the flames, others flew off into the dark.

  The villagers ran to the river. Boats went back and forth, taking people to the other side, where the fire could not reach them. In the scramble to get on board, some people fell in the water. Shouts and cries filled the air. Those who could manage it stripped off, held their clothes above their heads and swam across. One man put his four-year-old son on his shoulders and waded into the river. When the boy saw the water flowing around him, he wrapped his arms around his father’s head and howled. The man continued to swim. When they reached the other side, he lifted the boy down; he was now as quiet as a mouse, frozen with terror.

  The fire rolled in waves down the streets and alleys until the village became a sea of flame.

  Having managed to get Nainai onto a boat, Bronze’s father led the buffalo to the water’s edge. It knew exactly what to do and, without needing to be told, headed straight into the water. Bronze’s father helped his wife climb onto the buffalo, then held the rope as they swam across the river. Bronze was cold and scared. He trembled in his mother’s arms.

  A child fell into the river. Screams of shock and cries for help rang out in the dark. But how could they find him? Even if he surfaced, no one would see him. The fire raged closer. A few people waded into the water to look for the boy, but most stayed on the shore, waiting for a boat. Those already on a boat were desperate to get to the other side. His mother’s screams tore through the sky.

  Just before dawn, the fire began to subside. The villagers looked back across the river at Damaidi. The remains of their village lay wretched and black.

  Bronze had been so cold, but now the fire was out, he began to burn with heat. His temperature raged for five days. When it returned to normal, he was so thin that his big eyes bulged from his face, but in every other way he seemed well. Then his family discovered that their child, who had always talked so easily, was now mute.

  After that, Bronze’s world changed. He didn’t start school with other children his age. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to; the school wouldn’t take him. When he saw all the other children skipping off to school with their bags on their backs, he could only watch from a distance, while a hand – Nainai’s hand – stroked his head. She didn’t say anything; she knew what her
grandson was thinking. She just stroked his head over and over again with her wrinkled hands that were now a little stiff. He’d offer her his hand and she’d take it, and they’d turn round and walk home or to the fields. They would go to look at the frogs in the ditches, at the “weaver girls” – the grasshoppers in the reeds by the river – at the long-legged wading birds, at the sailing boats, at the windmills. Wherever Nainai went, she took Bronze with her, determined to give him some company. Sometimes, when she saw how lonely her grandson was, she’d turn away to hide her tears. But to him, she always looked happy.

  Bronze’s parents were out all day working on the land, with no time to look after him. After Nainai, Bronze’s closest companion was the buffalo. When his father came home each evening, Bronze would take the rope from him and lead the buffalo to the sweetest fresh grass. The villagers grew as used to seeing Bronze leading the buffalo to graze as they were to seeing him out and about with his grandmother. They would stop and watch, always with a twinge of sadness.

  Bronze looked at the buffalo as it grazed, its long and supple tongue rolling the grass into its mouth, its tail swinging rhythmically. At first, he let the buffalo eat the grass on the ground, but as the animal grew bigger he began to feed it grass he had cut, always the freshest, and the buffalo became the strongest and most handsome in Damaidi.

  The villagers said it was because “the mute” fed it so well. They didn’t call him mute to his face, and when they said his name, Bronze smiled at them, a pure and simple smile that brought tears to their eyes and a lump to their throats.

  Sometimes when Bronze was out grazing the buffalo he could hear the children reading aloud in class. He would hold his breath and listen as the rise and fall of their voices drifted over the fields. To him it was the most beautiful sound in the world, and he’d stand there, gazing rapturously towards the school. At times like these, the buffalo would stop grazing and gently lick the boy’s hand with its soft tongue. In answer, Bronze would throw his arms around the buffalo’s head, and dry his eyes on its mane.