The emptiness gnawing at her belly was making it hard to concentrate. Except for the out-of-reach persimmons, there wasn’t any food. But at least she could have something in her mouth. She retrieved her packages of Chinese gum, put a stick in her mouth, and began to chew. Two pieces left in the open package; seven total. She smoothed out the silver foil wrapper, then began to fold it.
There was the answer, right in her hand. The wrappers. She could use them to line the basket. And maybe some of the gum, to fill the cracks, or hold the wrappers in place.
Excited again, she pulled out all the food, candy, and gum wrappers Simon had made her save. The foil peanut packages. The plastic bag that had held apricots. Two plastic wrappers from the candy bars and one from the sesame candy. Three foil squares from gum. Three small plastic Starburst squares. Plus the piece of gum she was chewing.
She lined the inside of the basket with the wrappers, sticking the sides and corners down with tiny bits of gum. She had to chew two more sticks to cover the bottom. It was the saddest specimen of a craft project she’d ever seen. But it didn’t need to be beautiful. It just needed to work.
Time for a trial.
She reached for her water bottle and slowly, carefully poured a trickle of water into the basket. A little seeped out the bottom, darkening the ground around it, but it was a slow leak. Some of it stayed in the basket, on top of the wrappers. A partial success. Maybe she could keep adding water as it leaked out, and there would be enough in there to heat. All she needed was enough to get the cloth hot so she could wash Simon’s cut.
Next, heat.
It took two of their precious seventeen matches for the fire to catch. As the flames grew, Mia studied the basket in her hands. She should have made a handle. She’d have to put it right on the edge of the fire pit.
She inched the basket onto the clay shelf. Immediately, some of the sticking-out pieces of grass caught fire. She cried out, yanked the basket away from the fire, and dropped it on the ground, smoking. The little bit of water in it spilled on the ground. She stuck her singed finger into her mouth. She wanted to scream, kick the damn thing, stomp it into the dirt.
But Simon needed her to make this work.
She sucked her finger while the basket cooled, then lifted it to examine the damage. Amazingly, the wrappers were mostly still in place inside. She carried it out to the stream to a wet patch of bank. Scooping with her hands, she smeared mud over the bottom of the basket, careful not to dislodge the wrappers on the inside. The cool goop soothed her burned finger. And, she realized, the mud on the bottom should make it more watertight.
In the kitchen, she carefully slid the basket back over the flames. This time, it didn’t catch fire. She poured in a little water, watching the level with fierce concentration. It lowered a little, then held.
She poured in a bit more. It was holding, about two inches in all. She stuck her finger in the water. On the third try, she could feel it warming. It was less than a cup, but she had done it.
Eventually, the water began to steam. She washed the scrap of underwear bandage clean in the stream and dropped it into the water. Then she carried the dripping, steaming basket to Simon.
A line of yellowish liquid ran down the length of his cut. Pus. She shivered.
“Simon, I’m going to put a hot cloth on your cut.” She lifted the cloth out of the water with a stick and waved it to cool it a little. She touched the wet bandage to her cheek — hot, but not too hot — and slowly placed it over his leg.
“Aaaaaa!” He came to, arching his back, teeth gritted.
“Sorry, sorry! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine.” Teeth still clenched, he grimaced in pain. “How’d you … get it hot?”
“I made that.” She pointed to the basket.
“Impressive.” Maybe he was being sarcastic. She felt too triumphant to care. She soaked off the rest of the scab, poured a dribble of hot water over the open wound, and washed it with soap until the blood ran clear. She used her spare pair of socks to soak up the mess on the floor. Then she folded the bandage, dipped it into the remaining hot water, and laid the compress over the clean cut.
More fire, more heated water. Let the heat do its healing while Simon slept. She put her mind to the next task. Food.
Out behind the farmhouse, she studied the high branches of the persimmon tree. She could climb it, but … Her mind ran a little disaster movie, seeing herself hurtling to the ground. Lying there with broken bones, unable to move.
She shook her head to clear it, then examined the tree again. There was one branch with two persimmons that might be low enough to reach.
She worked her way up the trunk and shimmied along the branch. Clinging to it with one arm, she reached out with her other hand to grasp one persimmon. She slipped the fruit into the unzipped pocket of her pack, then grabbed for the other. From her high vantage point, she scanned the trees, turning in a full circle. Still no other sign of life.
Back on the ground, she studied the remaining persimmons. It was maddening to see them hanging there, so tantalizingly close, yet impossible to reach.
She fed one of the persimmons to Simon, fingerful by fingerful. She ate the other.
Twilight. The fire had gone out, so she made another one to heat more water. Fourteen matches left.
Except for when she fed him, Simon had barely stirred since the first time she washed his wound with hot water. She laid the hot cloth over his leg again, but he didn’t move. He seemed so far away. As the light dimmed, Mia sat on the floor beside him, clutching her elbows.
Her brother could die.
She reached for her locket, encountered the emptiness where it had been. A sob rose in her throat. Simon, come back. She’d take him exactly as he was — bossy, know-it-all, angry, withdrawn.
If only he didn’t leave her here alone.
In the dark, looming, menacing figures came for her. She tried to run, but couldn’t make her legs move. Her mouth opened to scream, voiceless. She was overwhelmed by a heavy sense of doom. She sensed Dad’s presence, but always just out of reach.
Then it wasn’t Dad anymore. It was a woman she longed for but couldn’t get to.
She came to, grasping for consciousness like a swimmer trying not to drown.
As she lay in the dark, she realized reality was worse than the nightmare. At least you could wake up from a dream. But the list of real terrible things right now was so long, she didn’t know where to start. Simon’s leg was infected. They had no medicine to cure him if it got worse. If he didn’t get better, they couldn’t travel. They hadn’t eaten a full meal in nearly four days. They had nothing left for tomorrow except a few out-of-reach persimmons.
Night by night, it was getting colder. They’d been lucky to have two days of sun. But it was October. If it rained again, they could get dangerously chilled. The farmhouse could shelter them for a night or two. But winter was coming.
To reach the border, they had to leave the forest. That meant crossing through areas where they could be seen. Traveling at night. No shelter. There were people out there looking for them. Dangerous people. If they caught her and Simon, they’d arrest them and take the phone. It would be clear that the photos were connected to Dad. He — maybe all three of them — could be held for months, put on trial, even sentenced to years of hard labor. The photos would never get out to the world, to pressure the North Korean government to treat its people better.
She wondered for the first time who had managed to take the pictures. Who could have possibly smuggled a camera into a prison camp and secretly taken photographs? A guard? An inspector? How did that person choose what images to record?
The image of the baby flashed into her mind, dead in the mud. She could only imagine the suffering of that short life. The other images crowded in, each one clamoring for her attention, as if competing for the title of Worst Terror. She twisted on the floor, feeling the horror flooding her limbs. She saw herself in a prison camp, pushing a h
eavy cart of coal, barefoot in the snow. Watching Simon — or Dad — being tied to a post and blindfolded. Before …
At the bottom of the pit of horrors in her mind, she found this one: It was all her fault. If she hadn’t told on Simon back in August, they wouldn’t have come to North Korea to try to fix their relationships. They’d still be in Connecticut together, safe at home.
In the dark, there was nothing between her and the monster terror, which had a life of its own. It wanted to consume her.
OCTOBER 6
Mia woke up, grateful that she was still alive. The fear hadn’t killed her.
Next to her, Simon moaned. So he was still alive too. She sat up and examined his leg. The redness and swelling and bruising didn’t look any worse.
She needed to start a new fire and heat water. And figure out some way to reach those persimmons in the high branches.
Simon moaned again. He looked flushed, and his lips were dry. She scooted closer to him, lifted his head, and brought a bottle to his mouth. He gulped water. She lay his head back on the pillow of his pack, put her hand to his forehead. It felt like he was burning up inside.
Simon had a fever.
Mia grabbed her spare pair of socks, scrambled out of the room and across the porch, and ran for the stream. She rinsed the socks in the icy water and came running back to place the cool, wet fabric on her brother’s forehead.
Now, hot water. But when she picked up the basket, she saw that it was ruined. The mud had dried and cracked, and most of the wrappers had come loose. It would never hold water now. She felt a moment of complete defeat.
Then she took a deep breath and blew it out. She had to help Simon get better. She’d make another basket. At least she knew how to do it now.
Searching for weaving materials in the long grass near the stream, her foot caught on something. It was dark brown, half buried in the dirt. A fragment of a large curved vessel.
She knelt and began to claw at the dirt with her fingers. Finally, she lifted the vessel out of the ground. She recognized it as a jar for holding kimchi. Cabbage and red pepper were mixed together and buried in jars through the winter to ferment. One whole side of the jar was missing. But the bottom was intact. The unbroken section came nearly to her knees. Leaned on its side, it looked as if it could hold at least a gallon of liquid.
Careful of the broken edge, she carried the fragment to the stream and scrubbed it clean. Then she lugged the vessel, filled with clear, cold water and cradled in her arms like a heavy baby, back to the lean-to, inching along so the liquid didn’t slosh out. She arranged it at an angle in the fire pit so that the surface of the water was level. Her heart was pounding now. A little hope mixed with the dread.
She filled the fire pit with wood and dry grass and lit it with a single match. Thirteen left. Squatting in the lean-to, she watched the fire. It was going to take forever to heat that much water.
Maybe she could wash her clothes — the inside ones — while she waited. She took off everything in the lean-to, then quickly pulled her jeans, jacket, and shoes on over her bare skin. Squatting beside the stream, she tried to imitate the women in another one of the Korean calendar pictures, washing clothes by pounding them on rocks.
When she got back to the kitchen, the water was starting to steam. She helped Simon hobble out of the room and across the porch to pee in the yard. Put a hot cloth on his wound, cool socks on his forehead. Got him a long drink of water.
When he was sleeping again, she went back to the persimmon tree. Since impossible-to-climb was no longer an option, the next choice was what was possible. And safe.
There was a nub of a branch that might hold a foot. And maybe she could use a stick to knock the fruit down.
It took six tries, but finally, she had a pile of ten persimmons on the ground. Some of them were even still whole. She’d gotten every piece except the few out of reach on the highest limbs.
She fed three persimmons to Simon and ate three herself. More rounds of hot and cold cloths. He barely moved through all of it. Mia had to keep stopping to take little rests, feeling the toll of all the activity on so little fuel.
She draped her wet clothes over a section of stone wall to dry in the sun. Back at the fire pit, the fire was down to ashes, but there was still a lot of water and it was still hot.
She realized then. A lot of hot water. Enough for a bath.
She checked on Simon again. His wound was clean and covered with the hot compress. She’d given him food and water. What he needed most was rest.
She stripped off her jacket, jeans, and sneakers again and stood naked in the lean-to, shivering. The bruises on her hips and thighs were purple, but the edges were already fading to yellow. Dipping her water bottle into the hot water, she lifted it above her head and poured. As the warm stream cascaded over her body, she nearly screamed with pleasure.
She completely wet her skin and used a little soap where it counted. Wet her hair and shampooed it. Then she poured bottle after bottle of hot water over herself, wanting it to go on forever. The only uncomfortable part was letting her body wind-dry a bit so she wouldn’t soak her jeans and jacket. She’d never again take a towel for granted.
Dressed, she went back to the room for her brush. As her bare feet touched the floor, she flinched in surprise. The floor was warm.
She moved her foot, testing. Of course: The fire in the lean-to was heating the floor. She’d explained to Simon how the system was set up, but it hadn’t occurred to her that anything in the crumbling house would still work. The fires she’d built yesterday must have been too small to fully heat the thick layer of clay.
Mia moved across the floor, trying different spots until she found the perfect temperature. She stood still, letting the delicious warmth seep into her feet. This would help Simon rest.
Now that she was clean and the floor was warm, she wanted it clean too. She got her wet socks from the stone wall and put them over her hands. She poured warm water from her water bottle over the floor and scrubbed it with her sock mittens, shifting Simon a little to get the parts under him. Mom would be so amazed to see her at work, the daughter who hated to clean her own room.
Mia had always been more her daddy’s girl. Mom was brisk, in constant motion, bustling and fixing. It wasn’t easy to relax around her because Mom kept thinking of things that needed improving. Such as her daughter. When Dad read to her, he just read. Mia could disappear into the story. Mom would get to an exciting part, then stop and ask, “What does this word mean, Mia?”
It was weird to find herself acting like her mother, putting things right — and actually enjoying it.
She collected another load of sticks and branches and stoked the fire for the day’s last batch of hot water, and to make sure they’d have a warm floor to sleep on. Then she gathered her sun-dried clothing from the stone wall and dressed. The stiff, clean T-shirt, bra, underwear, and socks felt great against her skin.
On her way back from filling the jar at the stream, she caught sight of a dark shadow in a patch of sun on a low section of the farm’s outer wall. She gasped. A snake! Large and black with yellow rings. Backing up, with the water sloshing in the jar, she stumbled to the lean-to and set the jar down on the fire. Her eyes darted nervously around, making sure the snake hadn’t followed her into the kitchen area.
She shivered. Snakes made her squeamish. It could be poisonous. Maybe it could even kill her.
But … people ate snake meat. Even poisonous ones like rattlesnakes. That slithery reptile out on the stone wall was a long rope of protein. They could really use some protein right now. Each day she had a little less energy. And meat would help Simon heal.
But that meant she would have to kill it.
No way could she kill a snake.
Simon would know how. But he was lying comatose on the floor, with a fever. If any snake slaying was going to happen, she’d have to be the one to do it.
Mia peered at the wall from a distance, almost hoping the snake
had slipped away. Still there, exactly where she’d seen it. Maybe it was sluggish from the autumn cold.
She couldn’t do this.
But she had to. She just had to be tough enough to do what needed to be done.
She crept a little closer. Maybe she could throw a rock at it, without getting too close and scaring it away. Or getting bitten.
Across the yard, one corner of the wall had tumbled down into a pile of stones. Mia sorted through the debris to find one big and heavy enough to kill a snake.
She moved within range and raised the stone over her head with both hands, shaking. She had only one chance. If she missed, she’d scare the snake away. Or maybe it would leap at her. Get ahold of yourself, Mia.
She took a deep breath and hurled the stone as hard as she could. It struck the snake and bounced off, tumbling down onto the ground by the wall. Suddenly, the snake was a coiling, writhing mass. She shrieked. She’d only wounded it! Desperate — for the meat and to stop the snake’s suffering — she ran to the wall and picked up the stone. She brought it down again on the snake’s mashed head, once, twice, three times. The body stilled, then went limp. A tremor of revulsion went through her. Tears filled her eyes.
“Sorry,” she whispered. She felt like throwing up.
But she didn’t have time to be sick; she needed to cook.
She left the carcass on the wall, went back into the lean-to, and stood for a moment, shivering. Then she put her mind to the problem. She couldn’t just put the snake’s body in the fire. It would only burn. The jar was like a giant cooking pot. There were four or five inches of water in it, beginning to steam. She could use the water to cook the meat. Snake stew.
Medical treatments first. The water was hot, but, she hoped, not yet hot enough to melt plastic. She dipped her water bottle into the jar and filled it with steaming water, carried it into the room, and reheated the compress on Simon’s leg. She lifted the warm cloth from his forehead and returned with it wet and cool.
In the Shadow of the Sun Page 14
