Beneath the Darkening Sky (24 page)

It’s the girl, running up to me with a bucket of water jerking in her hand. She drops it by the door and gently, but quickly, pushes me back inside.

‘What are you doing?’ she says, pulling the door closed. ‘If people see you, they’ll start asking questions.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s why I need to leave. Your family has risked enough already.’

The door swings open again and her father walks in. ‘You’re too weak,’ he says. ‘I don’t know where you mean to get to, but you won’t get there before someone
gets a hold of you.’

I see suspicion or fear in his eyes.

‘I’m not going back. I don’t want to return to the rebels or bring them here.’

The old man nods. ‘You still can’t leave.’

The girl adds, ‘Baba’s right.’

‘Why are you helping me?’ I ask.

‘Because you need it,’ she replies. She studies my face, like she isn’t sure about something. ‘Are you really a soldier? Do you really kill people?’

‘I was, yes,’ I say. ‘But I don’t want to go back. Really.’

‘Well,’ she says. ‘I was against bringing you here.’

I watch her eyes.

‘I have thought,’ she continues, straightening up and fiddling with her wrap, ‘that I could strangle you in the night.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ I ask.

‘Because I thought it’s what you would have done,’ she replies. ‘People talk a lot about you rebels, in this village. They’d beat even a pregnant woman for helping
one of you.’

Maybe she’s taunting me. ‘You could give me to the government.’

‘Believe me,’ she says, with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’m thinking about it. I can make twenty dollars.’

‘I can give you something worth more than that.’ And I give her the only thing I have of any value, the only information I have – where the camp is, and where the football
field is, which is near here. If she wants something to sell, something in return, then she has it.

Her father clears his throat and pushes the door open again. She rushes out and he follows. I hear her trotting away, her bucket sloshing. The old man sits by the door and hums quietly.

All I want to do is leave. I hope and I pray. I dream of running. Maybe we’re close to the border. Maybe I can get to some other place that has no war. Maybe that would be easier than
going home. Flying up from the cot, I run. My left leg makes long strides, my stiff right leg drags behind. The night is cool but night sweat clings to my forehead and chest. Dim lights burn in the
village. I tear off in the opposite direction. My toe catches and I stumble to the ground. As I hit the earth reality jolts through me.

What am I running from? A dream? I had a dream, of the Commander capturing me and Christmas. Of him laughing that no one can escape him, that there is no way to be free of his power.

Years. I’ve been a soldier for years. Countless first days. I’ve forced myself to forget, but that knowledge is still there. That dream, that nightmare, is years of fear and terror
surfacing. For the first time in so very long, I’m somewhere else. I’m so used to being afraid that my mind has to create nightmares to feel normal. That’s all. That’s all
it was.

My fever has broken.

I sit up, embracing the cold air. It’s a cleaner smell than the camp. How long ago did I stop noticing the scent of shit? The fear of my nightmare drifts away and I fill my lungs with deep
cleansing breaths.

I wonder what I tripped on. I gingerly get up and walk a few steps back. I kneel in the light of a quarter-moon. The shadows are long and the light is dim, but closer inspection reveals tyre
tracks. The ground is hard and pale, it hasn’t rained in a while. My memory of the last couple of weeks is vague, but I don’t remember any rain. Perhaps these tracks are left over from
the night they brought me here, from that storm.

No soldiers returned from that mission to raid the truck. Even if someone was left alive, I’d never heard of anyone going back for survivors. The fallen were left to rot. I laugh at
myself. They’ll all think I’m dead. The Commander and Parasite and the Mobile Force. They’ll all think I’m dead.

I can’t hold back my smile. ‘I’m dead!’ I shout to the stars and burst out laughing. Deep, uncontrollable laughs. I just lie there, my chest naked except for the bandage,
wearing a pair of Koko’s old work jeans, rolling on the hard dirt, laughing my ass off. I haven’t laughed, not really, in so long. My face and belly hurt. I can feel my wounds opening.
Oh, it’s so beautiful.

I pull myself up, grinning like an idiot, and stagger back to the hut. In the morning, I will talk to Koko. We’ll come up with a story about how I was shot by the rebels and left for dead.
No one has to know about my past, just another victim of their mad violence. Then I can start finding my way back home, back to my village. I’m not even sure, exactly, which direction it is
from here. I don’t really know where here is.

A hundred metres from the hut, I freeze.

A light flashes towards the hut. It’s the girl, holding a lantern in front of her as she comes. What is she doing visiting me this late? Or is this normal and my fever has just blocked it
out? I see more motion behind her. I peer against the darkness, trying to make out those shapes. People, three or four men, walk behind her.

Uniforms. Guns. Government troops. Shit.

I turn and run.

I’ll find a different village. I’ll tell them my story of running from the rebels. I won’t even have to lie. They attacked my village, I will say. There was an explosion. Why
tell them the things in between? They don’t matter. An explosion, and I woke up surrounded by dead bodies. I was wounded and alone. All true. Someone found me and took care of me, but then,
one night, I saw men with guns and I ran. Done. Just another refugee, that’s all anyone needs to know.

Off and away, I limp as fast as I can, ignoring the throb in my leg. They’ll want me to take them to the field, and then they’ll kill me. Into the night I flee. In a day, maybe two,
I’ll find another village. Right now I just need to get as far away from the government troops as I can.

Night wears on, I’ve no idea about the time.

It doesn’t take long for fatigue to catch up with me. I stumble a bit more, then slow. After a while, I’m dragging my wounded leg.

I lean against a tree, my legs like solid lead, and try to move again, but I don’t have the will. The ground is smooth, not too many rocks. I stagger behind the tree and sit. A rush of
relief pours into my legs and I revel in it. A few deep breaths and I’m gone again, back to sleep.

Hands wake me up. Hands on my arms dragging me away from my tree. I struggle, kicking at the ground with my good leg, trying to pull free.

‘I’m not a soldier!’ I shout. ‘I’m not a soldier!’

‘Of course you’re not!’ a voice yells. A terrible voice. ‘You don’t have a gun. Soldiers have guns.’

The men hoist me up onto my feet, twisting my arms around my back. They turn me to face the big green truck idling by the side of the road. Their commanding officer smiles at me like a cat.

‘Where’s your gun?’ Parasite asks. ‘Was it taken from you or did you throw it away when you tried to desert?’

This is real, finally. My second day.

I have seen how they treat deserters, and it is Parasite who holds my life in his hands.

I stare past the soldiers and into the dark jungle. The leaves of the trees whistle in the wind. ‘There were government troops,’ I say with a vague sense that this might spare my
life. ‘They were in the village down the road. I ran.’

‘You ran, all right.’

‘I didn’t know where I was —’

‘Aw, People’s Fire, were you trying to come back to us? Or are you stupid? Or do you think I’m stupid?’

‘I don’t understand.’

He whistles and the men drag me towards the truck. I scream and thrash. I can’t go back, I can’t! I’m supposed to be free. A rifle butt smashes into my head. Darkness
returns.

I’m already dead when I wake in the truck. There’s no point fighting. It’s better to just lie here. If you give up, they get bored. Boring them is a good way
to die faster. So I wait in silence, bound and aching, headed again for the football field.

When we arrive they haul me off the truck. I know every face around me. I’ve shot beside them, killed beside them, ate beside them. They cheered me as I raped young virgins and pulled off
long target shots. Now they’re booing and jeering me, shaking fists and spitting. This isn’t the taunting torture we’ve done so often, this is hatred. Real hatred. I’ve
betrayed them.

The guys from the truck push everyone away, making a big circle in the middle of the field. Younger boys scramble to pick up the pots of their dinner before the mob tips them over. Parasite
pushes me to the centre of the circle. ‘Good luck,’ he says, then pulls me to a stop and whacks the back of my knees with his rifle.

I go down without a grunt, it means nothing to me. Kneeling on that old familiar dirt.

I hear his heavy boots tromping through the crowd. He’s followed by a low whimpering sound. I look up and the bastard has Christmas. It hasn’t occurred to me that she would be
involved in this.

They bring Christmas to my side, her hands bound behind her. They don’t bother tying us to trees. Kneeling before the assembled army, there’s no chance for escape. The Commander
stands away from us, shielding a match from the wind as he lights a cigar. He takes two quick drags so it will draw. He blows a bloom of smoke up into the air.

‘People’s Fire,’ he drawls, looking at the ash end of his cigar. ‘You know, I really thought you would die before we got to camp.’ He’s several metres away,
speaking for everyone to hear.

‘Some of you may not remember when People’s Fire joined our ranks. He was so homesick and afraid that he threw up on the drive here from his village. I’ve seen a lot of boys
come through our ranks. A lot are sick. Some of them, it’s the sight of blood. That, I understand. Because when you see blood, you know that death lives in this world. You know that you are
mortal and that death will come for you, in time. There’s no shame in fearing death, it’s a good thing. That is a fear that makes you fight. It makes you push yourself to be strong so
that you can master death. That way, when old dry bones Mr Death comes for you, you punch him in the face and piss in his mouth!’

A cheer erupts, mixed with laughter. Some hoot. Some mime pissing.

‘I understand fearing a gun. Fuck, I depend on it!’ More laughter. ‘Guns are scary when you aren’t holding one. Just that metal click makes civilians wet their pants and
flee. People’s Fire, though, he saw death and blood and guns, and I’m sure he was afraid. Everyone’s afraid on their first walk through the minefield. Most are afraid when they
leave their villages to join our ranks. They tremble at the uncertainty, the unknown. All men fear the unknown. People’s Fire, though, that’s not what he was afraid of.

‘People’s Fire was afraid of himself. He was afraid that he couldn’t be a man. He was a dreamer. He was weak. I couldn’t believe how weak he was. He was afraid for his
dreams.

‘We beat him and we beat him hard. I named him Baboon’s Ass that day, and as we walked through the minefield I kept expecting him to get all moon-eyed and wander right onto a mine.
Kaboom!
But he didn’t. He lived. I starved him, but he lived. I broke his body, but he lived. I broke his mind, but he lived. And every day he got stronger. Then, I put a gun in his
hand and he shot a little boy right where we’re standing. He didn’t puke then. I made him into one hell of a soldier.

‘I’ve seen that boy walk through with the devil’s laugh in his throat and a blazing gun in his hands. I watched Satan himself walk the earth in that boy’s body. Mission
after mission after mission, he survived. Barely even got scratched. And I thought, That boy is fucking invincible. We give our soldiers strong names, names of death and power. I gave him a name of
shit and it made him stronger than any other soldier I’ve seen. I made him People’s Fire.

‘I broke him, and I made him. So I always knew that no matter how bulletproof and fireproof he was, I could always kill him. And I thought – foolishly, I’ll admit – I
thought he knew that too. I thought a strong soldier was a good soldier, and a good soldier falls in. But I didn’t know how strong the dream was. I didn’t know how stupid it could make
him. I left him alone with a house full of whores and he walked right by them and straight for my wife.’

A fresh chorus of boos and curses erupt.

‘So, maggot, I’ll ask you now, do you think you’re stronger than me?’

No cheers. No boos. No curses.

I remember the minefield, my first day. I watched that boy, his name long forgotten, shredded by the swiftly rising earth of an explosion. I then led the walk. That line, with the Commander
himself far in the back. And I had smiled.

Kneeling on the football field, I almost chuckle at the memory. This man has been trying to kill me since the day we met. Yet here I am.

‘Well?’ the Commander bellows again, his voice cracking just a little. ‘Do you think you’re stronger than me?’

Our eyes meet, mine and the Commander’s. I smile. I hear a strange beating sound in the distance, like ancient drums. Drums of war calling from the sky, they beat the rhythm of
Grandfather’s songs. Songs of courage and protection, songs for those about to die.

The Commander pulls the cigar from his mouth and gestures at me. He growls like a gorilla.

‘Untie him,’ he orders.

After a second’s hesitation, two officers run forward and undo the ropes around my wrist and ankles. They pull me up onto my feet. Adrenaline hits my system, crowds out the pain. It keeps
you fighting when you’re wounded, that adrenaline, it gets you onto your feet, makes you limber. The Commander’s growing gut stretches against his undershirt and he beats his fattening
chest with those huge fists.

A fresh cheer drowns out the drums. No one has seen this before. Even Mouse and the girls have come out to watch the show.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ the Commander calls to me over the roar. ‘You kill me today, and everything I have is yours. You can have my wife, you can have my gun, you can have
my stars.’