Refugee 87

by Ele Fountain

  Once they have unhooked the padlock and we step outside the compound, I feel a thrill of excitement followed by a wave of fear. It is hard to tell them apart.

  Bini and I shuffle like the others, perhaps even more slowly. I rub my eyes and stare at the ground just ahead of my feet, but my senses are drifting up toward the vast expanse of desert that surrounds us.

  There is a patch of scrub where two of the prisoners start gathering small sticks. One guard stays with them while we walk closer to the foot of a low hill, where we were before. Thorny bushes and stumpy trees spread out in a semicircle around the base. I try to keep in step with Bini, but the guard pushes me along. We shuffle slowly toward one of the largest thornbushes and bend to start collecting some decent-size pieces of wood. I think one guard is still with the first two prisoners. The other two guards are with us. One of them hovers next to Bini. I carry on gathering sticks, my hands sweaty.

  We must have been here for ten minutes or more. Soon they will round us up to head back to camp. I swivel my eyes up without lifting my head. One of the guards near us is picking his teeth with a stick. He raps Bini on the leg with the butt of his rifle.

  “You should have twice as much. Faster,” he growls.

  He wanders over to the other guard—I guess to tell him it’s time to head back. Without turning around, he unzips his pants and begins going to the bathroom.

  Bini pinches my arm and I hear him muttering under his breath, “Three, two, one.”

  He sprints away from the bush toward the open desert. I throw my sticks to the ground and follow, zigzagging from side to side.

  Seconds later, I hear a bullet ricochet from the tree trunk. Another whizzes past my head like a bee. Puffs of dirt jump in the air as more bullets hit the earth around us. We follow the curve of the hill until we are almost out of the line of sight. My thighs are burning and my mouth is dry. I hear shouting behind me but don’t turn around. Bini is just in front of me, his arms pumping air and his feet kicking up dust with each pounding step.

  The only word in my head is run. Run.

  I try to imagine that the border is just ahead and I’m running to cross it. I reach the point where my legs are about to collapse and my chest is on fire. Bini must feel it, too, because he starts to slow. We skid to a halt and look over our shoulders. We can see nothing but the small hill separating us from the camp beyond. The sky glows golden with the setting sun. I hear the deep sound of a diesel engine revving.

  We look around wildly for a soft patch of ground, running slowly with our eyes down. Bini points to a long crack in the earth. It’s not very deep, but it’s our only hope. We get down on our hands and knees to feel the earth on either side. It’s not rock solid but isn’t soft, either.

  The engine is no longer revving but growling like a truck on the move. The noise grows louder, and it can only be a matter of minutes before we will be in the line of sight.

  Bini starts scrabbling at the earth with his hands, like a dog, flinging dirt behind him. I do the same. My fingertips are numb and bloody after a few seconds. We don’t dig down, but across, making the crack a little wider.

  “Lie down,” Bini gasps. “Put your head by my feet and throw some earth over your body.”

  We lie in a line along the crack, faces down, pushing our bodies as far into the earth as they will go. My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. Sand and soil coat my tongue as I breathe with my mouth open, cheeks in the warm earth.

  The rumble of the truck gets louder quickly. I feel my breathing stop as my body tenses. I pray that we look like nothing more than two rocky bumps in the uneven desert landscape.

  The truck is so close now I can feel the vibrations as it whines and revs over the rocks and sand. I will myself to evaporate, to disappear, to become nothing but the dirt around me.

  I hear shouting from the truck, and then the shouting becomes quieter as the vehicle speeds past us. The guards must be scanning the horizon for two running figures, unsure which direction to look in the gathering dusk.

  I lie absolutely still. I feel Bini’s feet at the top of my skull, motionless. Seconds tick past like miniature lifetimes. After maybe half an hour I hear the whine of a diesel truck coming back toward us. Although I haven’t lifted my head or moved other than breathing, I know it must now be dark outside. The truck rumbles past so close that some of the dirt kicked up by the wheels lands on my legs.

  When silence returns, it feels deeper than before. No sounds of rustling blankets or coughing. For the first time in one week. Nothing.

  Then I hear Bini move to sit up, dusting the dirt from his clothes. I sit up, too. We look in the direction of the camp and see nothing on the horizon. The camp itself is hidden beyond the small bluff, slightly darker than the sky around it.

  Brushing the dirt from our faces, spitting it from our mouths, we look at each other and smile.

  “I thought they were going to run us over,” says Bini.

  “That would have been pretty bad luck,” I say. I feel almost dizzy with success.

  “Give me some bread,” he says, “and I might let you have a sip of water.”

  I chew the bread without sipping water. It sucks all the moisture from my mouth, but eventually I am able to swallow it. The water is so precious I save it for a small sip at the end of my feast of five cubes of bread.

  “We can rest for a few minutes, then it’s time to move,” he says.

  “Do you think we can make it to the border before morning?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says. “We’ve been doing nothing for a week. It’s time we got some exercise.”

  I smile again, then feel my smile suddenly fade.

  “What?” Bini asks.

  “I just realized, we’ve learned names and phone numbers for the other prisoners, but we haven’t learned numbers for each other.”

  Bini tilts his head to one side. “For once you’ve had a good idea. I’ll give you my mother’s number and the number of my cousin in London. How about you?”

  I teach Bini my mother’s number, Uncle Batha’s, and the number of our friend in England. We also recite the villages our relatives live in, although we already knew those.

  “Just in case only one of us gets a chance to use a phone when we get across,” I say.

  He nods.

  We start to walk. My legs are stiff; my stomach rumbles, again fooled into thinking that the bread was the beginning of a proper meal.

  After a few minutes, Bini breaks into a slow jog. We head toward where the sun set and keep looking up to see if the southeastern star is out. The air smells of earth, and the only sound is the regular crunch of our shoes in the dirt. We are surrounded by desert, with a dark blue sky fast becoming black overhead.

  After a short while, we get into a running rhythm and my body starts to feel better. Still we are silent except for the regular thump of our feet. Then, without warning, Bini drops to the ground. I do the same.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  “I think I see the border fence,” he whispers back.

  We must have been running for half an hour at the most.

  “Isn’t it too soon?” I say.

  I’m sure we’ve only come a couple of miles.

  Shuffling forward on our elbows like lizards, we stare intently but see nothing. The fence doesn’t seem to get any closer.

  “Bini, there’s no fence. It’s just the horizon.”

  “You’re right,” he replies. “It’s way too soon. I guess I was just hoping.”

  “Do you think we’re still heading in the right direction?”

  Bini tips his head back and looks up to the vast sky above. The brightest star is still to our left, but now it has been joined by a silvery backdrop of smaller ones, so faint they give the impression of a universe that stretches away forever.

  “I think we are, but we’ll know for sure when the moon rises. We should get as far as we can before it does, though. We’ll be much easier to spot in the moonlight.�
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  “Do you think we’ll be able to find some food once we’ve made it past the border?”

  “Sure,” Bini answers. “Don’t you remember Tesfay describing the restaurant serving spaghetti and ice cream, just past one of the watchtowers? Maybe the guys in the watchtowers help with the orders, if they’re not too busy.”

  “Ha, ha,” I say, but the thought is so ridiculous that it seems almost possible. The fact that we have nothing but a small bag of stale bread and a squashed bottle of water feels less important than it did a few minutes ago.

  “When we get to England, I’m going to eat ice cream every day.”

  “Will you still have time to watch Arsenal at the Emirates Stadium with me?”

  “Yes!” I say.

  Something about the vastness of the desert and sky that surround us has made us dizzy with excitement, even though we haven’t made it over the border yet. It’s as if we’ve reached an unspoken decision to savor every second before the next trial.

  As we stand up, I become aware of a low rumble behind us and I see headlights shining in two moving pools. They are looking for us again, perhaps with more men.

  The headlights are now facing in our direction. They’re moving closer.

  “Okay,” says Bini. “Either way, we have to run.”

  But we’re both on our feet before he finishes his sentence.

  I run with my eyes down. The moon hasn’t yet risen and the ground is uneven and covered in small stones. After a hundred yards or so, I turn to see the headlights pointing straight toward us, accompanied by the low throb of a diesel engine, as if whoever is driving the truck is no longer in a hurry.

  Bini is twenty yards in front of me. I look up to see if there is any cover farther ahead. I can make out the dark humps of low hills to the left. I fix my eyes on them and focus on my pace. I must not slow down. My breath is rasping and I feel like collapsing to the ground but instead push myself faster. I’m catching Bini. I can hear the truck engine above the sound of my breath and the thud of my feet.

  There is a puff of dust from the ground beside me. Bullets. Which means they are close enough to fire at us. Instinctively, I lower my head and try not to stumble. Bini does the same. There are more puffs in the ground on either side.

  Bini shudders and yells out, then falls to his knees in front of me, clutching his arm.

  I skid to a halt next to him.

  “What happened?” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

  “They shot me in the arm,” he pants.

  I can see something dark seeping through his fingers, pressed near the top of his arm. Blood drips in the dust.

  Bini stumbles to his feet and starts to walk. Each step seems to bump his wound.

  His eyes are shut tight and he gasps, “Go.”

  The truck is almost upon us. Bullets whiz past our feet.

  “Go!” he shouts. “Run!”

  The headlights cast a bright-yellow glow around us as the truck bears down.

  I look Bini in the face and see desperation in his eyes. I break into a run, my eyes still on Bini while he tugs the water bottle out with his good arm and throws it after me.

  There is shouting from the truck and the puff of more bullets near my feet. I pick up speed. The truck is no longer following me.

  I hear Bini shouting at the guards.

  Without consciously slowing, I am aware of myself coming to a stop and then turning around to see Bini. He is swinging his good arm at them, punching and yelling. He is giving me a chance to get away.

  I turn to keep running, trying to breathe through the sobs that are building within me, searching for the low hills on the near horizon while tears blur my eyes.

  I hear two shots behind me, then silence.

  I don’t know how long I keep running until I reach the foot of the low rocky hills. I am aware of the truck circling around in the desert behind me, but unless their headlights shine directly at me they won’t find me now. Bini bought me enough time to put at least five hundred yards between me and the truck. That is enough.

  I scramble a short way up the hill. Dips and bumps offer some protection from the freezing night air. Thirty feet up, I stumble into a hollow between two rocks.

  I scan the horizon one last time and see nothing but black desert, the areas of paler sand or rock highlighted by the rising moon. Somewhere out there in the blackness is my friend. I curl into a ball. My mind and body can no longer cope with being awake. I fall into a dreamless sleep.

  Border

  Something crawls over my foot. I am half asleep. I open my eyes and try to look down without lifting my neck. I hear a small creature moving near my leg. If it’s a snake, I must keep completely still.

  A small pair of ears pokes above the side of my leg. It’s a mouse. Perhaps it can smell the bread. I slap my hand on the ground and it darts away with a squeak. I am grateful to the mouse. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but hopefully no more than an hour or two. The moon is still low.

  Although I no longer feel hungry, I eat two squares of bread and take two sips of water. It feels wrong to eat and drink.

  Slowly, I stand up; the muscles in my legs and arms are stiff and aching.

  I start to walk east. I am a robot, putting one foot in front of the other. The human Shif is hiding somewhere inside. I don’t know if he will ever reappear.

  I walk and walk. I don’t care about leaving footprints. The sun becomes a long thin glow on the horizon. I occupy myself by thinking about how long I ran for, and for how long I have walked. If my math is right, then I must have covered at least eighteen miles. Tesfay said the border was about six miles from the camp.

  Either I am heading completely in the wrong direction, or his information about the border fence was wrong. Maybe there is a fence somewhere, but it doesn’t reach here. There are no watchtowers, either. I must be so far from any towns or cities that the military decided no person could get this far without being caught. I guess it’s easy to underestimate what desperate people are capable of. Perhaps I have passed silently from one country to another, and my only witnesses were the small creatures that live in the sand and rocks.

  Desert

  I know that I must walk as far as I can before the sun is strong again, but somehow the reserves of energy I drew on before have completely disappeared. My body feels heavy.

  I try to remember what Tesfay told us but find it hard to concentrate. I need something to focus on, to draw my thoughts away from the black hole that threatens to suck me in. He said to head southwest after the border. There is a refugee camp where I will be able to easily find someone who can arrange a journey north to the coast, and then on to a boat to Europe. There are many smugglers, so I might get a good price. He didn’t know how long it would take me to get there. Maybe two days walking, maybe five. If it’s more than two, I am in trouble. Two-thirds of my water and half my bread are gone.

  I am already weak after my time in the camp and so little food. I look to the south and see in the far distance what look like huge round-topped reddish mountains looming to the left.

  I am glad that daylight has bleached away the dark, but there is still no sound other than the rhythmic crunch of my feet on the sandy gravel. I am tired in a way I don’t remember ever feeling before. It’s as if an extra layer shrouds my body, a layer of something heavy and persistent.

  Wearily, I reach down for the bread bag at my waist and don’t see the sharp stone directly beneath my foot. My ankle twists and I crumple to the ground. Pain shoots from the side of my foot to my lower leg. After a minute, my ankle starts to swell. I can’t put any weight on it but I can limp, although this uses a lot more energy than just walking. I have no energy to panic.

  The sun is so hot that sweat runs down the side of my face and dries before it reaches my neck. A layer of salty sweat coats my body, sticking to my T-shirt. I have almost finished my water. There is a small thornbush ahead and I decide to rest there until the sun loses some of its heat.
I can feel what little strength I have evaporating.

  Before I sit, I hear a low engine rumble coming from the direction in which I am heading. There is dust on the horizon and a truck is speeding toward me.

  I throw myself to the ground, but it’s too late—whoever is driving the truck has seen me. I sit still—there is no point lying in the dirt anymore.

  As the truck draws near, I look up again and see that the men in the back aren’t wearing army clothes but long dishdashas and bright keffiyeh around their heads. They are not soldiers.

  A tiny spark of hope lights in my chest. Maybe they are from the refugee camp and have come to rescue me and take me there.

  They are waving in a friendly way. They will have water. I wave back and start limping very slowly toward the truck. My ankle is now so swollen that I can hardly bear to touch the ground with my left foot.

  As I start walking, the men stop waving. The truck slows to a stop about twenty yards away. The men are talking loudly to one another and every now and again point at me. They are arguing. One of the men throws up his arms in the air and then sits down. The driver revs the engine, and the truck turns around in a big dusty loop and heads back in the direction it came from.

  I sink to the ground again, feeling as if I am the last person alive in the world.

  Riddle

  Why did the men seem pleased to see me but then drive away, leaving me alone in the desert? They could see that I am injured and have no bags with me. No food.

  What if I haven’t made it across the border after all? What if I’ve been wandering in the wrong direction and the men in the truck have gone to get a reward from the soldiers for finding me?

  If Bini were with me, we could talk about what just happened, reassure each other that we’ll still be okay.

  I decide to eat three squares of bread. That leaves me with four. I tip a few drops of water into my mouth, but there isn’t enough left for me to have a proper mouthful. Then I sit next to the bush. I wonder whether, if I sit here long enough, my body will start to resemble the spiny dried-out twigs beside me. In a dry whisper I recite phone numbers and addresses to keep myself human.