Bamboo People

by Mitali Perkins

  “Let’s go, Tu Reh,” the old man says. I want to keep arguing, but he gives me such a stern look that I know I have to obey him.

  The girls and I move the soldier to the stretcher. Once he’s settled I take his glasses from my pocket and toss them onto his lap. “Here. These must be yours.”

  The soldier’s face lights up like fireworks as he grabs for the glasses. “This is the second time I’ve lost them since I left home! A thousand thanks, Tu Reh.”

  He puts them on. One lens is cracked, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. I can’t help noticing that his grin looks like my sister’s when I whittle her something or tell a good joke.

  “We have to hurry,” I say, turning away.

  9

  Ree Meh stoops to grab the bamboo poles on one end of the stretcher, and I bend to take hold of the other end.

  “One, two, three!” Nya Meh calls, and we lift on three, somehow keeping the stretcher fairly flat. Ree Meh is strong; the boy doesn’t feel heavy with the load shared like this.

  Nya Meh lifts the blanket and checks his leg. “It looks okay, Chiko,” she tells him. “The splint is holding, and so are the stitches.”

  The soldier doesn’t answer. He’s fallen back into an exhausted sleep, one hand still over his pocket.

  Nya Meh holds the door open, and Ree Meh and I carry the stretcher out of the hut. “They’ll probably burn everything,” Ree Meh says, swiveling her head to take one last look at the place she’s been calling home.

  “You didn’t build it, right?”

  “No. And it wasn’t built well.” But I can see her profile. Her eyes scan the chili pepper and tomato plants, the papaya trees, the bamboo-shaded path to the river behind the hut.

  The old man comes out last and bolts the door. I can’t believe what he’s carrying along with his pack.

  It’s an assault rifle.

  And he’s got ammunition slung across his chest.

  Plenty of it.

  I’d clap my hands if I weren’t holding the stretcher. I’m ready to fight to the death to defend him and the girls, but it’s good to know I’ll have some backup.

  The grandfather trots nimbly through the hidden mines to where we’re waiting. “There’s a right time for everything, my boy,” he says, noticing my close look at the rifle. “A Karenni man must decide for himself when to kill.”

  It’s almost exactly what Peh told me. Did schools used to teach sayings like that in the old days?

  We get on our way. It helps that both Ree Meh and I know the trail well. After an hour or so, we’re moving like one unit, our steps keeping perfect time. Her braid swishes in front of me like Mango’s tail.

  Marching, marching, marching, never slowing, never stopping. Biting flies buzz around our heads, branches snap beneath our feet, the endless crackle of leaves. Shadows shorten and then lengthen as the sun moves overhead.

  Nya Meh is carrying a heavy pack, but she’s managing to keep up. When the trail widens, she walks beside the boy to keep an eye on him. Even the old man is moving at a quick pace, bringing up the rear. I’m glad he’s back there with his rifle.

  The soldier, although jostled with our steps, is still fast asleep. Soon, though, Nya Meh tells us he’s burning with fever. She takes off his glasses and places a wet cloth on his eyes.

  “I’ll hold the specs,” I say, and she tucks them into my pocket.

  We keep moving, stopping briefly every now and then to listen. Ree Meh doesn’t complain when I don’t put down the stretcher to rest. We have to get to the river bordering the camp—Burmese soldiers don’t dare to cross it, thanks to the defense of our camp patrol. That’s why we hoard the few weapons we have. But we’ll never make it there by nightfall, not at this pace. We’ll have to sleep one night in the jungle.

  By the evening, clean, cool raindrops begin to fall, and we tip our heads back to catch them on our tongues. As the water slides down my thirsty throat, I can’t help noticing the soldier shivering on the stretcher. After all this trouble, is he going to die anyway?

  We leave the trail and make camp in a small clearing. The ground is damp and hard, covered with slippery teak leaves and small stones. Ree Meh and I start to gather wood, but her grandfather stops us. “They’ll see a fire or smell it,” he says.

  The night grows darker as we eat dried fish and papaya, trees rustling as unseen creatures catch our scent. Peh taught me to recognize the high-pitched cry of a hungry leopard, and I hear one in the distance. Fire would keep the animal predators away, but the old man is right. It could also lure people.

  10

  “His skin is darkening around the wound,” Nya Meh tells us after a quick inspection of the soldier’s leg by candlelight. I hear the anxiety in her voice. “Not a good sign. If only we could walk through the night. The doctor will be there, right?”

  “She was in camp when we left,” I say. “We should get there tomorrow afternoon if we keep up this pace.”

  “Get some sleep, sister,” Ree Meh says. “If he takes a turn for the worse, I’ll wake you.”

  The grandfather is already asleep, one hand gripping the rifle even as he snores.

  I sit between Ree Meh and the sleeping soldier.

  “You should rest, Tu Reh,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

  This girl has lost a lot, too, like Sa Reh. And she’s tough. I like talking to her.

  “Can’t sleep,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Memories. But I guess we all have some. At least those of us who haven’t grown up inside a prison.”

  “Prison?”

  “Camp feels like a prison to me. Some people our age have spent their whole lives there—they’re forgetting our homeland. Our country.”

  “Can you blame them? Camp life is all they know.”

  “You’re right, but it’s still hard. I hope we’re not losing our desire to fight. We’re getting soft, I tell you. We do stupid things, like bringing this boy along.”

  In the moonlight I see the chin lift that runs in the family. “My grandfather’s not soft,” she says. “He’s fought hard to help our people. He’s a hero.”

  “I’m sure he is, but do you think the Burmese would do something like this for us? Ha!”

  “Well, then doing things like this is a good way to stay Karenni!”

  Our voices have risen. “Be still, you two,” the old man hisses. “Your sister needs her rest.”

  We’re silent for a while, and then I hear Ree Meh sigh.

  “What’s wrong now?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why the sigh, then?”

  “You’ve got me worried about moving into camp, Tu Reh. Are … are there many girls who’ve grown up there? I didn’t see many our age the last time I was there.”

  “They were probably in school. There are lots of them.”

  “Those girls. Are they anything like me?”

  What kind of crazy question is this? We’re in danger, escaping through the jungle, and she’s worrying about the other girls in the camp?

  “Not really,” I answer. “You’re different.”

  It’s the truth. Most girls my age make me feel clumsy and rough, like a boar smashing through the jungle. I usually keep my distance. But Ree Meh isn’t like that. It doesn’t feel like I’ll crush her.

  “I’m different?”

  “Definitely,” I answer.

  “That’s what happens when you grow up without a mother,” she says, and I hear a new wistfulness in her voice.

  “No, no,” I say, mad at myself for not making it clearer. “That’s not it.”

  “Well, then, why am I different?”

  “I don’t know. You’re … stronger, Ree Meh. More … more like a boy. Yes, that’s it. You’re more like a boy.”

  She flings her braid over her shoulder. “A boy?” she asks. “You think I’m like a boy?”

  Somewhere in the conversation, I’ve made a terrible mistake. “No, no. Not like a boy at all. I mean—” It’
s too hard to explain.

  “Granddaughter!” It’s the old man, and I realize our voices have gotten louder again. “Come and rest. Tu Reh can watch alone.”

  Without another word she gets up and strides away.

  I smile and lean against the trunk of the teak tree. I like this tough, sweet girl. She’s a fighter.

  For the first time in a long time, the night isn’t full of angry memories. Instead I daydream myself into the future. A twenty-year-old Tu Reh is building a strong hut shaded by a bamboo grove, planting rice paddies, fishing on a bridge.

  And wait! Who’s that?

  There she is—a girl with a glossy black braid and warm brown eyes, planting a chili pepper bush beside the hut.

  She’s probably trying to boss that future me around.

  But I think he likes it.

  11

  The ground shakes me awake. I’ve fallen into such a deep sleep that I have no idea where I am. Leaping to my feet, I glance around in a daze.

  Another tremor makes the earth move and the trees quiver.

  And another.

  The girls and their grandfather are up almost as quickly as I am, the old man with his rifle leveled and ready. “Elephant!” he shouts. “Get behind the tree! Bring the boy!”

  Ree Meh and I race to the stretcher. The soldier moans as we lift him but doesn’t wake. His bandages are drenched with blood, and his leg below the knee is oozing with pus and looks twice as large as normal. Nya Meh throws it a worried look as we lug him behind the biggest teak tree, where she and the old man are already hiding.

  Again the earth trembles under our feet, but this time it doesn’t stop. A wild, booming call echoes through the jungle. And then we see him—an enraged bull elephant, blood pouring from a gash across his leg.

  He tosses his huge head from side to side, bellowing.

  He’s headed straight for our tree.

  The curve of sharp tusks gleams in the sunlight.

  The girls are shouting, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the path to the injured boy. The grandfather stands next to them with his rifle ready.

  I move out from behind the tree and yank the bamboo pole off my belt.

  “Get out of the way, boy!” the grandfather bawls. “I’m going to shoot!”

  A bullet or two won’t keep this beast from trampling everything in his path. Peh told me once that only a frontal attack can frighten an elephant off.

  Wielding my pole like a spear, I race toward the elephant, yelling at the top of my lungs.

  The big creature screeches to a four-footed stop. He’s startled, already threatened because of the fresh wound on his leg.

  “YAAAA!” I shout, and lunge at him again.

  His eyes survey me, my pole, my stance. And then he decides to turn. His massive, wrinkled sides heave with the effort of it. Bamboo trees crash and are smashed to pieces under his feet.

  With one last roar of rage, the huge animal thunders back up the trail.

  We’re breathing heavily, sweat pouring down every face.

  Except the soldier. He’s missed the whole episode, muttering in his sleep, that one hand still protecting his pocket as though his heart itself were in there.

  “Tu Reh, thank you,” Nya Meh says. “You risked your life for us. For all of us.”

  “Your parents raised you well, boy,” the grandfather says. “I’ll tell them when we meet.”

  Ree Meh says nothing, but her smile makes me feel like I could scare off a hundred wild elephants.

  And then we hear it.

  A shout in the distance, somewhere on the trail behind us.

  Someone else is about to encounter our fierce attacker. Someone calling for help from his companions. I can’t make out all the words, but I hear enough to know it’s Burmese.

  We’re being followed.

  12

  The elephant becomes our defender, keeping our pursuers back, buying us time.

  Without a word we pick up our loads and move as fast as we can, listening for every crackle and sound behind us.

  Minutes pass. An hour.

  We keep going.

  We’re getting closer to camp, and they haven’t caught up yet.

  Maybe we’ll make it.

  We manage to stay together until the trail narrows and starts cutting back and forth downhill. The way leading to the river is overgrown with underbrush. The camp leaders like to keep it that way as an extra defense. It’s hard to maneuver the stretcher now, and Nya Meh and the old man pull ahead.

  Again we hear it—a shout. This time the Burmese words aimed at us are loud and clear: “Stop or we’ll shoot!”

  We move even faster. A bullet flies in our direction through the trees, followed by another. They’re gaining ground. A third bullet smashes into the trunk of a tree close to the grandfather’s shoulder.

  “Run ahead!” I call to him and Nya Meh. “Warn the patrol!”

  Nya Meh takes one last look at her sister’s face and disappears into the brush. But the old man turns and comes toward me. He slings his rifle over my shoulder. “It’s loaded,” he tells me, and then he’s broadening the path for us as he goes, tearing away as much of the growth as possible with his hard, old hands.

  Ree Meh’s doing her best to pull the stretcher through the overhanging vines and prickly undergrowth. I’m pushing and trying to keep it level. We’re so close to the river—it’s only a few hundred yards away but bullets are slicing by us. I’m hoping the old man and Nya Meh can rouse the defense in time. A bullet grazes Ree Meh’s arm, bringing blood, but she doesn’t slow down or even flinch.

  More yells. More shots. Let them miss! I pray.

  We enter a patch of thick foliage, where for a minute or two bullets can’t get near us. “Go! Run!” I tell her.

  “I’m not leaving you here,” she says, throwing a quick, desperate glance over her shoulder. It’s quiet back there. Too quiet. They must be reloading.

  “You have to!”

  “No!”

  I don’t know how to make her go. “The stretcher’s slowing us down,” I say. “Put him on my back.”

  Somehow she hoists him up. Dropping everything except my bamboo pole, my canteen, and the rifle, I trot down the trail with the soldier draped across me. I can’t risk speeding up to a run—we might fall, and then I’m dead for sure.

  With Ree Meh ahead of me, we reach the last set of switchbacks before the river. Bam! They’re firing again, and she ducks to miss a ricocheting bullet.

  “Go get help!” I shout, trying to sound as commanding as Peh. “Now!”

  Amazingly it works, because she speeds up and races downhill like a deer.

  Now it’s just me and this soldier again. The sharp curves in the trail are making it hard for our pursuers to aim, and they don’t want to shoot the soldier by mistake. But I’m running out of time before they’re right on my heels. The one in the lead is only about four switchbacks behind me now.

  The trail makes another sharp turn. Just ahead, the river sparkles through the trees. It’s wide but shallow, and I spot Ree Meh’s small shape sprinting across the near shore. The camp is just across the river. She’s almost safe. Where are our defenders? Why aren’t they coming?

  I could leave the soldier here. He’s probably dying anyway, his leg infected and swollen, fever raging through his body. I might make it to camp before they shoot me. I’m a fast runner. I glance at his face. No, I can’t drop the boy now. Not here. Not when we’ve come so far.

  I need to buy some time. Lowering his body to the ground, I race back uphill around two switchbacks. At the third bend, I lift the rifle, brace it against my shoulder, and wait. In less than a minute a flash of forest green uniform moves through the leaves, followed by several others. They’re not using the trail—they’ve decided to shoot from the jungle, where they’ll be better camouflaged this close to camp.

  Before they get too close and realize I’m alone, I start firing. I send off a semicircle of bullets into the leaves. Then I race
to the second switchback and shoot off a volley from there. Reaching the place where I’ve left the boy, I shoot from there, too. I want them to think a dozen Karenni warriors are attacking them.

  Then I sling the rifle across my shoulder, pick the boy up in my arms, and stagger down the hill to the river.

  13

  A dozen or so armed Karenni men come splashing through the water toward me. They pass me without a word, race up the trail, and start shooting into the trees.

  I see Ree Meh running toward me as well, and soon she takes the weight of the boy’s head and shoulders in her arms. As the water curls around my ankles, I know we’ve made it. Our attackers will turn and run now. They’d never defy the Thai army by entering a camp on this side of the border.

  On the far bank a crowd is gathering around Nya Meh and my mule, Mango, and … is that Sa Reh?

  Nya Meh wades through the water to us, her eyes on the boy’s bleeding, oozing leg.

  “Is he alive?”

  “Barely.”

  “Can you carry him a bit farther, to the doctor’s hut?” she asks, taking Chiko’s swollen leg in her hands.

  “We’ll use my mule,” I say.

  We cross the rest of the river together, the three of us using our arms as a makeshift stretcher for the boy.

  Sa Reh is clutching the rope around Mango’s neck. He’s chewing betel nut mix, as usual—his favorite habit, even though I’ve told him a hundred times that the stuff stains his teeth and makes his breath smell bad.

  “Tu Reh!” he says. “Who are these girls? They’ve been telling us some crazy story that you’re carrying a Burmese soldier….” His voice trails off as he sees the boy’s uniform. “Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

  “Can’t talk now,” I pant, still trying to catch my breath. I take the rope from Sa Reh, and Mango nuzzles me in welcome. We heave the boy’s body across her back.

  I hand Sa Reh the rifle. “Give this to the old man, will you?”

  People are clustered around the grandfather, listening intently to his story, casting worried looks in our direction. Sa Reh takes the weapon from me, disgust in his face as he backs away from the soldier.