Beneath the Darkening Sky

by Majok Tulba

  Soldiers beat their hands together. Mouse and her girls clap and cry.

  The officers glare at me.

  My eyes fall on the Commander.

  The only light in the cell comes from the torches outside. A dozen soldiers step into the little room. The door bangs shut and a latch scrapes. A chain rattles and a key clicks.

  I see the eyes of those surrounding me. Hard eyes, digging into me, stripping me bare. The air is thick with old sweat and urine and silence. My knees shake as I get up. Patches of black explode in my sight, edged with bright white. I stumble. I am spinning. Little black spots burst open in front of my eyes. I need to sit down.

  A hand grabs my hair and throws me across the room. Another hand clutches my neck and shoves me. Every two steps in one direction or another a hand is laid on me, forcing me back. A fist plunges into my stomach. I stagger. Hands against my ribs, thrusting me to the side. I double over. An open palm sails straight up into my face. My head flies up, I try to keep my balance.

  More strikes and insults. I don’t count, it isn’t worth thinking about. Something is trickling down my face. In my mind, Mama gathers me in her arms. She rubs my back and rocks me. She tells me everything will be okay, that I’m just having a bad dream. Everything will be okay when I wake up.

  Cell

  I wake up with my face in the dirt. At some point I don’t remember, they tied me up Congo-style. My elbows have been lashed behind my back and my ankles bound. Those loops are cinched together so that my back is locked in an arch. Dull, constant pain. Joints turn to stone. I listen to the sounds outside.

  Millions of crickets sing in the trees and the grass. I hear a cock crow in the distance.

  I turn my ear to the earth. I’m in a little shack with mismatched sheets of tin stuck together. The feet and hands and voices have gone. But I hear a groan. I squint and turn my head. Someone else is in here with me.

  ‘Hey,’ I whisper. ‘Hey’

  The groan comes again, something like ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ His voice is weak. ‘Your song.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How hard did they hit you?’ My cellmate takes in a deep, ragged breath. ‘Your song. I don’t know what you call it. That whole bit about “the wind will carry us”. How’d it go? “The wind will carry us home beneath the darkening sky.” Something like that.’

  That was no song I’d ever been taught.

  Now I recognised this kid – it was the boy who called for his mama.

  Outside, the familiar tromp of the Commander’s boots. A brief chaos of locks and chains jangling before the flimsy door swings open. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. One dusty boot lands in front of my face.

  ‘Did you think it was you who’d gotten a promotion?’ He squats down next to me and grabs me by the hair, twisting my face up to look at him. ‘You think because you play for me and my wife, you can play whatever you want? We don’t have songs like that here. Songs like that do not exist in our new world!’ He shoves my face back into the dirt.

  ‘No wind will carry you home.’ He pushes himself back up. ‘Really, Baboon’s Ass, how stupid are you? How could you believe for even one second that I would allow that kind of anti-revolutionary propaganda to be played? And at the celebration for my promotion! Do you want to die, Baboon’s Ass?’ He rips the pistol from its holster, clicks the safety and digs the nozzle into my temple. ‘Do you want to be executed as a traitor?’

  I just lie in the dirt.

  The pistol relaxes and hangs in front of my face. ‘Or are you just that stupid? Well, get this into that shit bucket you call a brain, maggot. You are here and here you will stay. You will never see your charred little village or that ugly-bitch mother of yours ever again. You see, a lot of the soldiers out there, they think you’re resisting us. They think it was rebellion that made you play that song. I think it’s because you’re a stupid fuck who doesn’t know better.

  ‘Now they all have this idea that there’s a resistance against us. Against the revolution. And every time they’re unhappy, every time they’re whipped for a breach of discipline, every time they think they need more food, every time they’re weak, they will think, Maybe I can join the resistance too. Maybe I can be a Baboon too. So, what shall I do? Should I kill you, Baboon’s Ass? Should I kill you for being stupid?’ He kicks dust in my face.

  ‘No. No point making you a martyr for a cause that doesn’t exist. Want to know what I’m going to do, Baboon’s Ass? I’m going to make you a fucking soldier. I’m going to make you fast and tough.’ He chuckles. ‘I’m going to make you the best fucking soldier here! You’re going to stand prouder, sing louder and push harder than anyone else in camp. So the rebel against us will be our hero.’ Again he chuckles. His feet step towards the other boy locked up with me.

  Bang! The ground vibrates with gunshot.

  ‘First, though,’ the Commander says, holstering his pistol, ‘we need to educate you. Bodies are easy. I’ve made skinnier runts than you into iron soldiers before. Minds, though, are different. We’re going to find out just how strong your mind is. Oh, one more thing. No more guitars. Guitars are now banned in camp, and if I catch anyone even pretending to play one – firing squad.’ He kicks me in the ribs and leaves.

  When night falls, I’m moved from the shack into a narrow cage wrapped in thorn vines. They loosen the knots at my elbows and tighten them at my wrists. So I kneel, always teetering towards the long thorns, in a cage maybe seventy-five centimetres long, seventy-five wide. Two days, they say, without food or water.

  Completely exposed, I’m freezing. I sit back on my heels and look up at the stars, watching their slow turn. I sway in and out of sleep. The night fills with half-dreams, crowding around me so tightly I can’t tell what’s real. Not that it matters. I’m tired of reality.

  In brief moments of clarity, when I’m jerked awake by a thorn digging into my arm, I can hear pigeons singing to the dark. I try to dream that I’m a pigeon, free to take wing at any time and go where I please. Do they dream of being me? Perhaps some dark force makes them sing.

  The sun breaks through the treetops and the blistering day begins. A guard stands by me at all times. It’s impossible to escape, so he must be there to stop me killing myself. Sometimes it’s Parasite who stands guard. At midday, my entire body is soaked in sweat, my legs slippery with it. The agony makes the heat increase and time slow. Parasite is my reverse. Another soldier brings him water and a plate of grilled goat meat. They sit in the shade of a tree a few metres away and eat, drink and laugh.

  ‘Parasite,’ I moan. ‘Can I have some water?’

  He holds up his canteen. ‘This water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Turns out he’s thirsty,’ Parasite says to his friend, and they laugh. But he pushes himself up from the tree and brings the canteen over to me, unscrewing the cap and taking a quick drink. He lowers it to the level of my mouth and as I lean forward to drink, he pulls it just out of reach. My lips almost touch the rim.

  ‘Please,’ I beg.

  Parasite giggles.

  ‘Just a sip. Come on, please.’

  ‘Stop begging, man,’ Parasite says. ‘You know me.’ He tips the canteen and pours water at my feet. ‘Try calling for your mama. Maybe she’ll bring you something.’

  I drop my head, close my eyes and try to fly away. I go up, up above the cage, into the clean air. Up above the jungle, where I can hear other birds sing, and the wind cools my wings. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a hum. Deep and steady, like locusts approaching, but lower. Voices in the camp. I open my eyes. Others hear it too. Then shouting. Have I summoned something? I look up. A bomber sails through the sky in the east. From the camp, a wail of alarm rises up. It’s a government plane that I’ve called from the skies. It’s come to free me.

  Soldiers scramble for cover. Parasite snatches up his rifle and runs, shouting back at me. ‘If you get killed by shrapnel, I
’m going to piss on your corpse!’

  My cage is a flimsy thing, it protects me from nothing. But I don’t want it to – one way or another, I’ll be freed.

  I kneel, helpless and glad of it, as the hum grows louder. Pops of gunfire from the camp, then a stuttering roar as everyone joins in. I blink again and again as my eyes refuse to focus. The sounds erupt around me, I can’t tell from what direction or how far, or who’s shooting at who. A soft boom echoes. Another explosion, louder, shakes the ground and the ground shakes me. At an interminable distance I see the clouds of the explosion. Here it comes. The ground moves like a river. The roar is like a thing itself, surrounding me. A thin mist of dirt rains down.

  I wait for the bomber to drop one on top of me. It creeps across the sky, too big and heavy and slow to fly, dropping payloads.

  I feel something against my lips. It feels like metal – a knife. I jerk my head back. A cup. With water. As I lower my head again to drink, I see Priest holding the cup. The bomber passes, the air falls still. Priest has gone.

  A distant voice barks orders and Parasite returns with a couple of friends. Covered in dust they walk with their chins high and their chests out, like they’ve shot down the bomber. They make baboon noises, but I hang my head, keeping back my great secret – I survived the bomber, I’ll survive them.

  I find the spot in the cage with the fewest thorns and collapse. The thorns bite into my arm. Exhaustion claims me. A moment later, water splashes over me. I shoot upright, gasping against sleep and the shower of cold water.

  Parasite stands above, jeering. But it’s the Commander’s shadow that blocks out the low sun. ‘Good,’ the Commander says. ‘He looks fine.’

  His voice is almost friendly, not kind or welcoming, but as if I’m one of his buddies. ‘Parasite thought you might be dead, and I can’t have my new star soldier dying on me, now can I? All right, boys, get him out of there. And Parasite, try not to shoot him by accident.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Parasite says with a smile.

  Relief washes over me. Parasite opens the cage, careful of the thorns. Two soldiers pull me out into the dirt and untie my feet. They pick me up and help me stretch my legs, so I can stand. Ten minutes later I still need their help to walk straight. My joints crack every time I take a step.

  Parasite hits me with the butt of his rifle, pushing me to go faster. I stumble forward, then stand still for a second and regain my balance, which is hard with my hands still tied. We are headed for the training field, where I can hear the distant rhythm of orders being given, though the words are unclear.

  We round a corner and the field comes into sight, the big empty space between the officers’ huts and the kitchens. The senior soldiers are running through gun drills, a swift and brutal dance, but still a little funny because of those running to keep up, and the ragged clothes.

  One of the lesser officers runs to meet us. He looks angry, and I’m afraid that he’ll make me run, or whip me for being too slow. As he approaches he slows to a walk and pulls out the long knife at his hip. He’s going to slit my throat. He grabs my arm and turns me. I brace myself. He cuts the rope off my wrists.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ he asks Parasite. ‘It’s not his execution. The Commander wants him standing proud.’ The officer shoves his canteen into my arms. ‘Drink, Baboon, we need your eyes bright.’

  He grabs my elbow and pulls me towards the field as I drink. We’re still going much faster than my legs are ready for, but I only just manage to keep my balance as I gulp water desperately. When we arrive at the field, the officer nods to another and a few seconds later the soldiers finish their drill and are ordered to sit. The entire camp is here, sitting in rows that line the packed earth of the field. The Commander stands at the other end of the circle.

  ‘Baboon’s Ass,’ he shouts. ‘Front and centre!’

  The officer shoves me and I stumble forward.

  ‘Run, Baboon!’ he orders.

  I stagger towards him, as if one foot isn’t sure where the other is. Amid a low chorus of laughter, I stand before the Commander again. He puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m afraid my legs might buckle under the weight. He turns me to face the better part of the circle, then nods. A dozen soldiers jump up and form a line, holding their AK-47s at their sides. This isn’t one of the regular formations.

  ‘Tonight we celebrate two heroes,’ the Commander yells. ‘The first is Gushing Blood.’

  It’s Akot. The Comander says Akot will be initiated as one of the Great General’s bodyguards.

  They bring out a short log and set it in the middle of the field. Everyone stands around watching. Some of the General’s bodyguards run up and bring Akot to the log, handling him with the rough affection of brothers.

  Behind Akot’s back, one of the officers has a long hoe nestled in the embers of a cooking fire. The kind with a narrow blade, about thirty centimetres long. Two bodyguards pick Akot up off the ground, laughing in what my brother mistakes for something congratulatory. With Akot’s feet dangling above the ground, another bodyguard pulls my brother’s shorts down. He starts to shake.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ one of them says. ‘It only hurts for a month.’

  And another, ‘Welcome to the club, kid.’

  They balance his backside on the edge of the log, holding his arms out. Two more soldiers hold his legs and pull them as far apart as they will go. His penis and testicles are as exposed as they can be, lying on the log. Are they cutting off his penis? Another bodyguard comes up with a string and a short stick. He ties one end of the string to the stick and shoves the stick into Akot’s mouth as a gag. The free end of the string is tied to Akot’s penis, to keep it pointed up at his face, leaving his balls to hang alone.

  I have seen cows and goats being castrated. But not a man. Not a person.

  The officer comes out with the hoe. The sharpened end of the blade glows red from the cooking fire.

  ‘Soldiers of the revolution,’ the General declares over the shouting and laughing. ‘I welcome Gushing Blood into the order of my bodyguards!’

  A cheer rises and the hoe comes down. Akot screams, the other guards laugh. They press the red-hot blade against the wound where his balls had been, burning it shut. A glass jar appears from somewhere and the bloody testicles are put inside, then paraded around, like a hunting trophy. I throw up and pass out.

  When I come to, Parasite is sitting next to me on the ground, laughing at me. ‘It’s a rare honour. One of the other bodyguards must have been killed.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re taking him on a special training session. Don’t worry, your precious big brother will be back soon.’

  After Akot is taken away, more soldiers, younger ones, bring in five recruits, dirty and bruised, their hands bound behind them. They are lined up facing the armed soldiers, then forced to their knees. They all cry except for one. It’s the quiet whimpering you hear every day here, all around you. It breaks you, over and over, until it kills you or moulds you into a creature to be feared.

  ‘Baboon’s Ass,’ the Commander says quietly. ‘Do you know why these boys are about to die?’

  ‘No, sir,’ is all I can say.

  ‘These boys thought they would go looking for that wild wind. They tried to run away, and we can’t have that.’

  I see Priest sitting nearby, his face buried in one hand.

  ‘These little shits,’ the Commander bellows for the entire field to hear, ‘are traitors! They are weak and corrupt and tried to run back to the government that created them. They want to go back to their villages and get fat and learn to profit from the work of others. They serve themselves! And by serving themselves, they oppose the people! We are the people! We are their voice! These boys have resisted, abandoned and betrayed us. What do we do with traitors?’

  A roar flies up. ‘Blow their brains out!’ ‘Flay the bitches!’ ‘Kill!’ In a few seconds, ‘kill’ becomes a chant, over and over, the army joining in a single
voice. Moments like this make the Commander’s speeches almost believable. He raises a hand and the chant dies away.

  ‘The people have spoken!’ he cries, and is answered by a cheer.

  ‘Baboon’s Ass,’ he bellows, to silence the cheers. ‘It was your song that exposed these traitors. Without you and your clever trick, we might still be living with traitors among us. You are the fire that smoked these snakes from their hole. You are the people’s fire.’

  The line of soldiers raise their AK-47s and aim them at the weeping recruits.

  ‘Give the order, Baboon’s Ass!’ he demands.

  I say nothing, but I smell the lion’s scent.

  ‘Give the order,’ he repeats, ‘and show me that you aren’t a traitor yourself. Because if you are a traitor, you’ll have to join them. You and your accomplice. Because who would ask a traitor to sing, except another traitor?’

  I look over at Priest. I can see the pain in his eyes.

  ‘Say “Fire”,’ the Commander says, ‘or I’ll execute your friend as you watch. Hell, I’ll put the gun in your hand, then pull the trigger for —’

  ‘Fire!’ I scream. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The Commander’s thick arm wraps around my shoulders, like he is my father, hugging me with pride. Bodies hit the ground and a cheer flies up. The recruits’ blood seeps into me, staining my bones.

  But these boys were going to be killed anyway. I saved Priest’s life, and mine. Besides, a firing squad is the best way to die in the camp.

  They make me carry one of the recruits to the pit where we throw the corpses of the dishonoured. We have a proper cemetery for those who die for the revolution, but not for traitors. The walls of the pit are black from a hundred fires lit inside. Families of vultures poke around on top of it, until hyenas come along. As we approach, the vultures stand defensively, like they’re guarding the dead. One soldier pulls up his AK-47 and fires a few rounds at the birds. They fly off.