A Wish in the Dark

by Christina Soontornvat

  Night fishers.

  There were so many more of them now than there had been years ago, when he started this patrol. For Manit, it was a hard thing to watch. Most of the parents had once been fishermen — not crabbing around the docks but out on the river, with boats and nets of their own. But the big fishing trawlers, with their fancy, fast motors, had put them out of work. To compete with the big boats, you needed a big motor and an orb to go with it. To get orbs, you needed money. To make money, you had to have a fast boat, and so on and so on. No wonder he saw so many doing the dangerous work of swimming in the churning water of the river at night.

  Manit turned away from the Violet-lit shoreline and headed up a dark canal. After a few minutes of searching, he found a familiar figure leaning over the edge, staring down into the black water below.

  Now he remembered why he kept turning down that cushy West Side job. There were people here that mattered to him, people who deserved someone to look out for them.

  Somkit was one of those people.

  Manit slowed his steps and checked his pockets for change. He always tried to give Somkit some money if he could. He had no idea how the kid survived. Where did he sleep? What did he eat?

  Despite his plump cheeks, Somkit was spindly as a stick bug — that never helped when you were living on the streets. And he had trouble breathing, which was why he couldn’t hold his own night fishing with the others on the better section of the river. Manit always found him setting his traps in these stagnant back canals. Poor kid. On top of that, he was a Namwon orphan. Most of the time, those kids ended up right back in jail.

  Well, that wouldn’t happen to Somkit. Not if Manit could help it.

  “Hey, Somkit!” he called. “Just the guy I needed to find tonight.”

  The boy jerked up his head. When he saw Manit, a look of panic flashed over his face. He quickly pushed something — a crab trap, perhaps? — down under the water.

  “Oh, uh, Officer Manit! I, uh . . .”

  Manit worried for a second that something was wrong. “You okay, kid? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  Somkit smiled his easygoing smile. He waved the fingers of one hand, gripping tightly to the rope of his crab trap with the other. “Me? Oh, yeah, totally fine! Living the dream, as usual.”

  Manit smiled. “Good. So, listen, I need some advice. The motor on my boat chugs when it starts. Sounds like it’s going to rattle into pieces.”

  “Hmm . . . you’ve got a good connection between the orb and the motor? Because if the connection’s bad, it can —”

  Something gurgled and sputtered in the water below. Manit leaned over the edge of the jetty and saw a boy’s face come up to the surface for air. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to the water.

  “Oh, him? That’s just my cousin,” said Somkit.

  Cousin. So that’s how Somkit made do. He must have family in the city who’d taken him in after he got out of Namwon.

  Officer Manit started to ask the cousin what his name was, but before he could say anything, Somkit leaned over the water. “You find any crabs?” he shouted to the kid.

  The boy gasped for air, clutching onto the rope of the crab basket. “What? No. I — I can’t brea —”

  “Well, try again!” yelled Somkit. “You think they’re just gonna jump into your hands? You gotta catch ’em!”

  Somkit reached down and pushed his cousin’s head, sending him back underwater.

  Somkit shook his head at Officer Manit. “He’s lazy. I’d do it myself, but the guy’s gotta learn somehow. So, anyway, make sure the motor connection is clean. If that’s not the problem, it could be you just need a new starter . . .”

  The cousin reemerged at the surface and took a big gulp of air. He managed two more gasping breaths before Somkit shoved him back underwater.

  “You can get a starter for cheap at the Light Market, bottom level,” continued Somkit. “If you tell them I sent you, they’ll give you the wholesale price.”

  “Hey, that’s just what I needed to know,” said Manit. “Here, this is for you.” He held out the coins from his pocket.

  “Oh, nah,” said Somkit. “You don’t need to do that . . .”

  “Go on, take it,” pressed Manit. “You just saved me a bunch of time and money. This is the least I owe you.”

  Somkit bowed his thanks and took the money. The good-for-nothing cousin came up for air, empty-handed again. Somkit rolled his eyes. “I’ll be needing this money if my lazy cousin keeps coming up with no crabs!” He reached down and shook his fist at the boy in the water before pushing him under again. “Get back there and don’t come up again unless you’ve got a crab in each hand!”

  Manit laughed and turned to go. “You tell him, Somkit. I’ve got to finish my rounds.” He called over his shoulder, “Hey, you and your cousin watch out for yourselves, okay? We just got word at the police station that there’s a dangerous criminal on the streets. He’s a runaway from prison, and he was hiding out in a temple down south. You see any weird people around, you let me know, okay?”

  Somkit nodded gravely. “Sir, if I see anything out of the ordinary, you’ll be the first to know.”

  In the hours after Pong leaped from the cliff at Nok’s feet, he had clung to the cargo barge as it puttered slowly upriver, making stop after stop at every tiny village dock. Even if Pong had known how to swim, he had been too terrified to make a break for the shore in the daylight. He had nestled deeper into the nets hanging from the boat’s hull and waited.

  Night fell. The barge glided past a tall tower that beamed blinking Gold light into the dark — the first orb light Pong had seen in years. The river widened, and then he caught sight of what he thought were the rays of daybreak.

  Chattana.

  The city was even brighter than he remembered. This time, though, the sight of the lights filled him with terror, not wonder. He kept seeing Nok’s furious face. Her words drummed in his brain: You’ll go straight to Banglad.

  They echoed the words that had haunted him for four years: Those who are born in darkness always return.

  Pong shuddered. The only thing that gave him any hope at all was touching the red braided bracelet. Surely this was just a little detour. He would find the sea and his freedom. He had to — Father Cham had wished it.

  Finally, the barge docked at Chattana to unload. Before anyone could see him, Pong swung himself under the planks of the pier. He spent the next few hours under the loading dock, dodging the fish blood and shark guts that dribbled down through the cracks and trying desperately to come up with a plan for hitching a ride on a boat heading south to the sea. He was starving. Worse, he was freezing. Even the warm, soupy water of the Chattana River would make a person cold if he was in it too long. Pong’s fingers had shriveled like dried plums. He had to get out of the water.

  But by then, the river was full of swimmers. He heard boys’ voices and the splashes of them diving in and popping back to the surface again. The shore teemed with their families. There were too many people for Pong to get out where he was.

  Teeth chattering, he crawled out from under the dock. Using the old tires and slimy ropes hanging off the shore, he pulled himself along, keeping in the shadows as much as he could, until he came to a narrow canal that branched off the main river. It was dark back there. Maybe if he went that way, he could climb out without being seen. But he was so weak, and the sides of the canal were so slippery. A wave of desperation washed over him.

  “H-h-h-help . . . p-p-p-please . . .” he called feebly, not caring who heard him now.

  “Over here!” called a voice from above. “There’s a rope there, near you! Grab on!”

  Pong’s fingers found the rope. He clung to it and looked up.

  A face wide and round like the moon gaped down at him. It was a face Pong never thought he would see again. It filled him with an indescribable joy.

  And then it reached a hand down and shoved him under the water.

  After the polic
e officer left, Somkit hauled Pong up onto the dock beside him. It was an awkward maneuver, with lots of grunting, and Pong nearly pulled Somkit over the side. Finally, Pong knelt on the slippery wood boards, heaving and shaking. Somkit draped a thin towel over his shoulders.

  “All right, I think Manit’s gone,” whispered Somkit, looking over his shoulder. “Man, that was close. Sorry about pushing you underwater so many times! I just didn’t want him to see you. Thank goodness it was Manit and not —”

  Somkit turned back to Pong, startled all over again, as if he were fully realizing who Pong was for the first time. He placed his hands on the sides of Pong’s chattering jaw and turned his face one way and then the other, as though he weren’t quite convinced the face really belonged to his old friend. He let go and smiled the same wide smile that Pong remembered. “Man, when you popped up out of the water like that, I was sure you were a ghost!”

  Pong tried to smile back at his rescuer, but his teeth were chattering so hard that it made his entire skull shake. “I — I — s-s-so c-c-c-cold,” he stammered.

  Somkit’s smile faded as he eyed the fuzz of Pong’s shaved head. “We’ve gotta get you out of here. We can wrap this towel around your head, and — whoa, I did not need to see that!”

  Pong was nearly naked, wearing only the thin cotton underwear from the temple, which was almost transparent when it got wet.

  “Uh, okay, it’s all right,” said Somkit, averting his eyes as he wound the towel around Pong’s head like a turban. “Just carry the crab trap over your — you know — your stuff, and if anyone asks, we’ll say your clothes floated away in the river.”

  Pong followed after Somkit in a daze, holding the crab trap over his groin, trying to keep the crabs from pinching his underwear, as they made their way through the busiest, brightest part of the city.

  Chattana had more canals than streets, and in a few months, when monsoon season hit, it would have hardly any streets at all. Most people got around on boats that traveled the canal system, winding through the different neighborhoods, out to the main flow of the river, and back into the city again. Those on foot squeezed onto the narrow wooden gangways that hung suspended over the water on either side or the skinny alleys that crisscrossed the tracts of land between canals. Tall apartments rose overhead, their open windows overflowing with orchid plants, laundry, and chatting neighbors.

  People pressed against Pong on all sides, hurrying in both directions. He did his best to keep up with Somkit. At least having to hustle was helping Pong to warm up — that, and all the lights.

  After years of living in the quiet solitude of the mountain, Pong had forgotten what it was like to see the artificial light of the orbs, hear their buzz, and smell their metallic tang. And here in the city, there were thousands — no, millions — of them. Even though the rains were weeks away, that many orbs made the air feel thick and pressurized, the way it does before a thunderstorm breaks.

  The boys dove into the rowdy throng of the entertainment district. Pong had never felt more exposed in his life, but there were so many people and so many distractions that nobody gave him a second look. Somkit pressed farther into the city’s belly. Away from the clubs’ thumping drumbeats, the alleys became more dingy, with fewer orbs.

  They crossed a bridge filled with people sitting on the ground, holding up signs and open palms. It took Pong a moment to realize they were begging. He stared, shocked at how many outstretched hands reached toward him. Beggars had come to Wat Singh, but never as many as this. Pong had never seen so many needy people gathered together.

  Somkit reached into his pocket and pulled out the handful of coins that Manit had given him. He dropped them into a woman’s tin cup. “Come on,” he whispered to Pong as he pulled him over the bridge. “And try not to look like such a country bumpkin, okay?”

  Somkit swerved suddenly to the left and led Pong down a dimly lit alley. Strands of tiny Violet orbs swayed overhead, strung between the rickety buildings.

  “Where are we going?” asked Pong.

  “Shh,” said Somkit. “Whatever I do, just go along with it.”

  At the end of the alley, a faded cloth banner swung over an open doorway. The banner had the image of a fish printed on it and said MARK’S SEAFOOD EATS.

  The banner swished aside and a short man with glasses emerged wearing a grumpy scowl. “It’s about time you showed up, Somkit!” he shouted. “But where’s your haul? Don’t tell me you’re coming empty-handed and expecting to be paid again.”

  “Calm down, Mark, calm down,” said Somkit, nodding behind him. “My cousin’s got a full crab trap. And we need full bellies to go with it.”

  Somkit leaned in close to Mark and whispered something to him quickly. Mark glanced at Pong and his eyebrows shot up. He nodded, then reformed the scowl. “Yeah, yeah, I remember your cousin,” he shouted. “All right, take the crabs to the kitchen. Make a plate and then go. And no refills! Got it?”

  “We got it,” said Somkit. “Come on, cousin.”

  Pong followed Somkit into the restaurant. He patted the towel tighter on his head and tried his best to shield his half-naked body from the customers. Mark followed them inside and said in a loud, grouchy voice, “Kids these days got no manners. Showing up wet, with no clothes, expecting a meal.”

  The diners in the packed restaurant had their heads bowed over their plates, spooning curried crab into their mouths or slurping fat, jiggly oysters out of their shells. Pong’s mouth watered. He hoped that they were about to eat.

  Somkit ducked into a kitchen full of steam and smoke. The cooks leaning over Crimson orb burners stopped their work for a minute to nod a hello to him and looked curiously at Pong.

  “It’s okay. He’s cool,” Somkit said to the cooks, who went back to their chopping and sizzling. “You can put the crabs there,” he said, pointing to the corner and motioning for Pong to follow. They ducked under a curtained door, into a green-tiled bathroom.

  “Come on, behind here,” whispered Somkit. He slid a stack of fish-sauce crates to the side, revealing a hidden passage.

  “But that guy Mark said we were supposed to make a plate and go,” said Pong.

  “Nah, that was all just for show. You go in. I’ll close this back up after.”

  Pong stepped inside the dark passageway. He heard Somkit behind him, sliding the crates back into place.

  “We’ll get you something to eat,” said Somkit. “But first we gotta get you clothes. I’m tired of looking at your butt crack, okay?”

  Pong followed Somkit down the dark hall. Gradually, the darkness gave way to a lavender twinkling light.

  “My friend,” said Somkit, slapping Pong on the shoulder, “welcome to the Mud House, the finest burned-out tenement building in the whole city.”

  Pong and Somkit stood in the atrium of a cavernous building. The house’s wooden walls and floor were as dark and slick as the inside of a turtle’s den. Strands of Violet orbs swung overhead. Pong counted six stories, each one open to the central hall on the ground floor.

  “Somebody here told me this used to be a government building, where the old Governor worked,” said Somkit. “You know. Before the Fire.”

  Pong nodded as he looked around. That would explain the blackened color and the building’s strange layout. Each floor was ringed with rooms that must have once been offices. The Great Fire had burned away the entrances to each room, leaving behind a warren of square cubbies.

  Just like the rest of Chattana, the Mud House was packed with people. They leaned over the railings on every floor, chatting to their neighbors or hanging laundry up on lines strung between the orb lights. Children played games on the stairs. On the ground floor, people sat at rows of long tables, eating or studying together over stacks of books.

  Pong could smell the sizzle of food cooking back in Mark’s restaurant. His empty stomach gurgled.

  “Clothes first,” said Somkit, reading his mind. “My room’s this way.”

  Pong followed him
up the stairs to the third floor, stepping around children who giggled and pointed at his butt. Somkit drew back the curtain of one of the cubby rooms.

  “Welcome to my humble castle! Make yourself at home.”

  Pong stepped into a room not much bigger than his tiny one back at the temple. There was a mat and a pillow in one corner and a shelf along one wall covered in coils of wire, tin snips, pliers, and little glass jars filled with sorted pieces of metal.

  “Go on, take a seat,” said Somkit, motioning to the mat. He turned his back to Pong and started rifling through a pile of clothes. “No . . . no, too short . . .” he said, holding up a pair of pants. “Why’d you have to get so tall? We used to be the same size!”

  “We were never the same size,” said Pong. “I was always bigger than you.”

  “Had a bigger mouth, you mean,” said Somkit. He turned and grinned, tossing the rumpled clothes to Pong. “Here. These should fit. The pants’ll be too short, but we’ll find you some better ones tomorrow.”

  Pong slipped on the shirt and pulled on the baggy pants over his now-dried underwear. The shirt showed his belly button, and the pants bulged around his hips and barely covered his knees. “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Completely ridiculous.”

  They both laughed, and for a moment it felt as if it had been only four hours, not four years, since they’d last seen each other.

  Somkit seemed the same, but also different. He was still scrawny for his age, and his cheeks were still round and chubby, just like Pong remembered from Namwon, but there was something unfamiliar in Somkit’s eyes. He looked back at Pong with a sadness that didn’t match his happy-go-lucky grin.

  Somkit ran his hand over his hair, and Pong noticed his friend’s tattoo. It had a bright-blue line running through the letters and a tiny star — the mark of someone who has been officially released.

  Not a day had passed at the temple that Pong hadn’t prayed for his friend and wished he could know what he was doing. What had it been like after Pong left Namwon? How had Somkit managed? And what did it feel like on the day they opened the gates and let him go free?