School Days

by Ruskin Bond

  They sat on, smacking at the mosquitoes for a while longer.

  'We'd better go in,' Christopher said reluctantly. 'I heard Salome go down to her cottage. I do wish that your mother would sleep in the house. Especially tonight.'

  'Ma likes her own place, you know that. Anyways, then pirates will be after her gold teeth the moment she opens her mouth to scream.'

  That made Christopher laugh, but Jonah didn't even smile at his own joke.

  'Stop worrying, Jonah,' said Christopher. 'We'll be all right with the gallows thing. In fact, I don't think that they will come here at all.' Christopher tried to sound offhand and mysterious, both at the same time. 'They just might call on someone else we know, instead.'

  But Jonah didn't seem to hear any of it, for he just said: 'I sleep in the hammock, eh?'

  'Well,' Christopher said, 'if you'd rather come into my bed. . . .'

  'With the thing over my head?' Jonah grinned then. 'No, it's the hammock for me. And the big torch.'

  They took a long time to fall asleep.

  Yet they finally did, lulled by the faraway sound of the sea and the wind in the coconut trees. Then, much later - and very slowly - a huge moon climbed into the night sky, and its light split through the wooden shutters of the room where the boys were mow soundly sleeping.

  And on the stroke of midnight the pirates came.

  Suddenly they filled the room, clear and sharp to see, yet ghostly and untouchable as the moonlight. They swore and shouted, banged their pistols on the walls and the wooden shutters, slapped their cutlasses on the foot of Christopher's bed. . . .

  'Wake up, laddie. The gold!'

  'We'll have the coin back. . . .'

  'Cap'n, slit his thiefin' throat!'

  And a moment later, the pirates made way for Captain Skull.

  Slowly he advanced on Christopher until his fleshless head was just inches away and the empty eye sockets were two deep pools of evil. The lower jaw swung down as the Captain made ready to speak.

  It was too much for Christopher. 'I haven't got it,' he wailed. 'I haven't got the coin! Jonah! The torch. . . .'

  From the madly swinging hammock came a sudden beam of light. It went clean through the pirates like a bright sword blade - and straight into Christopher's eyes.

  'On the shelf, Jonah! The shelf. . . .'

  But now the hammock was swinging more violently than ever. Then Jonah fell out of the hammock and hit the wooden floor with a thud, and the torch rolled away, spilling a line of brilliant light.

  His jaws clinking and clattering, Captain Skull roared: 'It's the little blackamoor! He has the doubloon!' The Captain had turned away from Christopher, and now the eyeless sockets and one skeleton hand were all pointing squarely at Jonah.

  The pirates had gone silent for a moment, but now they again erupted into shouted oaths and threats.

  'I'll have your liver for breakfast!'

  'Give the gold over. . . .'

  'You'll walk the plank!'

  Jonah came shakily to his feet, then he threw something high into the roof. 'Take it then,' Jonah shouted, half sobbing. 'I wanted the gold for ma. I never gave her anything before!'

  A dozen unwashed faces were upturned, a dozen pairs of red-rimmed eyes watched the coin spin in the moonlight. . . then a huge skeleton hand shot up and caught it in midair. And at that exact moment, Captain Skull and his pirates vanished. In a split second the room held only the moonlight and the two shaking boys.

  In the sudden silence, Jonah swallowed the other half of his sob.

  'Jonah. . . ?' Christopher shook his head in bewilderment. 'How did you get the coin? I saw Hippy Harry steal it!'

  'Me, too.' Jonah came over to the bed and took a deep breath. 'So I sit in his chair, then I take the coin from under the papers. Sorry, Masta Chris. . . but you know how ma likes gold on her teeth. It was gonna be a present, see?'

  'Well, they got it back,' Christopher said, sighing with relief. 'Put on the light, Jonah.'

  'What for?'

  Christopher grinned in the moonlight. 'Now that I'm no longer in mortal danger. . . I feel mortal hungry! Don't you?'

  'You bet!' Jonah said, brightening. 'You stay in bed. . . I'll go hunting. I know just where ma hid some fried chicken - from me!'

  Christopher was laughing when he reached up for Hippy Harry's charm, still dangling over his head. Then he threw the model of gallows and pirates right across the room.

  By then Jonah had vanished.

  Jonah believed in speed when the object was food.

  From Short Story International

  Oath of Friendship

  Shang ya!

  I want to be your friend

  For ever and ever without break or decay.

  When the hills are all flat

  And the rivers are all dry,

  When it lightens and thunders in winter,

  When it rains and snows in summer,

  When Heaven and Earth mingle —

  Not till then will I part from you.

  Anon, Chinese, 1st Century BC (trans. Arthur Waley)

  Miss Smith and the Black Pearl

  Maureen Lee

  He danced his way to stardom - then came back to see his old teacher. . .

  EXCITEMENT COURSED LIKE A FEVER THROUGH THE NARROW, century-old corridors of Penrose Road School on the day they heard James Ogori was coming back to see the end-of-term concert.

  James Ogori was their inspiration, their ideal. He was living proof that even if you came from an area described as a 'sociologist's nightmare' such as Penrose Road, you could make it.

  Success was not an impossible, worthless dream, but existed, waiting for anyone whether black, white, brown or yellow, if they worked hard and wanted it enough. Even if your Dad was out of work like Mr Ogori had been, or a dustman which Mr Ogori had eventually become, and you had a big brother always in trouble with the law. Despite all these tremendous hurdles and hazards, you could make it.

  Like James Ogori had.

  Of course, initially he owed it all to Miss Smith. He'd actually said that on television on more than one occasion when he was being interviewed.

  There weren't any specialist teachers at Penrose Road School. Miss Smith was Class Xl's Form Teacher and, painstakingly, she imparted the mysteries of spelling and sums and taught them how to draw and read stories. However, she took the whole school for musical movement and drama and it was then that Miss Smith came into her own.

  In her black leotard covered in pulled threads and her laddered tights, she stood before the rows of children on the creaking boards of the hall, like a tiny beacon, back arched, arms outstretched, and willed, coaxed, cajoled, practically hypnotised them to dance.

  And they responded. They flung their arms out like branches in a wind, kicked their legs, swung their hips and then, with eyes closed, forgot they would not be eating lunch and Mum wouldn't be home till eight o'clock that night when the factory shift finished or that Dad had clobbered them that morning for nothing in particular. They became lost in the lovely, languid movements.

  What did it matter if they couldn't remember their three times table or thought cough ended with an 'f' and sometimes couldn't even understand what the teacher said to them.

  They undulated, back and forth, in wonderful freedom to the music on Miss Smith's record player and pretended they were butterflies or gazelles or whatever she wanted them to be.

  James Ogori was nine when he came to Penrose Road School and it was obvious straight away he was special. There was more zest in his movements, more rhythm in his steps, and on his face a look of ecstasy which told Miss Smith it wasn't just with his body he was dancing but with his mind and his heart too.

  And what was so nice about Miss Smith was that she didn't shout at the rotten children, the ones with no sense of timing or two left feet, the ones who fell over. It was to them she was kindest.

  'Very good, Helen,' she would say to a little girl who was too fat to touch her toes, or 'Nice movement
, Bobby.' Bobby lacked coordination and couldn't remember which was left and right.

  The better you were, the fiercer she became so everyone was happy really, because if she yelled, you knew you were good.

  And did she yell at James Ogori!

  'Bend!' she would screech, facing them, arms outstretched like a cross. Her brown-gray hair was cropped short, her skin had never known cosmetics and was waxy and colourless. But her eyes were bright, cornflower blue and they glared at James Ogori, willing him to do the impossible.

  And sometimes it seemed he very nearly did, leaping to fantastic heights, taking unbelievable strides, all to please Miss Smith.

  'You created me, you know that, Miss Smith,' he said once, his mischievous, chocolate eyes aglow and she replied crisply: 'Nonsense, child! God created you. Don't you listen in religious education?'

  When he danced, bare from the waist up, he would glisten with oily perspiration and someone said he looked like a pearl. A Black Pearl. The name stuck.

  Miss Smith had Mrs Ogori to the school and asked if James could possibly be sent to dancing lessons. Try as she could, what with four sons and a husband to support, Mrs Ogori couldn't think of a way she could raise an extra shilling, let alone the two pounds a week required - and they wanted a whole term in advance - so Miss Smith herself paid to send James to a good dancing school on Saturday mornings where at first the pretty girls and posh boys in their immaculate clothes and special shoes for this dancing and different shoes for that dancing, laughed at James Ogori in his shorts and bare feet.

  But they didn't laugh when they saw him dance and as soon as Mr Ogori heard of this, and of how a chit of a white woman was paying out money on behalf of his son, he immediately took a job as a dustman. It was undoubtedly beneath his dignity to empty other people's rubbish, but to have your son partially supported by a lady who barely came up to your elbow was far more shameful.

  Like everyone else, the Black Pearl had to leave Penrose Road School in July; he was eleven to go on to Comprehensive School. That was the year they did West Side Story for their end-of-term concert and James played the leader of the Puerto Rican gang.

  You'd have thought it was a sort of 'thank you' to Miss Smith the way he did that part. He danced like magic, and the glittery dust of that magic touched the rest of the cast who felt as though a spell had been cast on them. They danced and sang like stars.

  Mrs Ogori shed more than a few tears when she saw her son dance and sing so beautifully; her husband felt an unaccustomed lump of pride in his throat which refused to be swallowed and even the three older brothers, who'd been dragged there under the threat of an assortment of punishments, were impressed and regarded young James with respect forevermore.

  Only Miss Smith appeared unimpressed and she calmly thanked the audience for coming and refused to let anybody take a bow by themselves.

  The parents said she was a cool customer all right, but the children knew Miss Smith and could tell she was pleased with them. She didn't need words or looks to let them know how good they were.

  There was never another end-of-term concert like West Side Story. That was special. Miss Smith went on with her musical movement classes and the children loved them just as much.

  James did his five years at Comprehensive. Perhaps it was the dancing that gave him confidence his older brothers never had because he got six O levels and his dad pleaded with him to stay on. To have a lad at university seemed to Mr Ogori a pinnacle of parental success. Steadily, firmly, James refused.

  Mrs Ogori went to see Miss Smith.

  'He wants to go to London and on the stage,' she said, frightened for her baby.

  James had never gone back to see Miss Smith, but she was not the slightest bit hurt. He would come one day, in his own good time, of that she was certain.

  Now she answered Mrs Ogori, with the firmness and kindness she was loved for.

  'He will never let you down. Let him go to London and the stage if that's what he wants. It's what he was born for.'

  Inevitably James had been picked out of the chorus line of some second-rate show and given a solo part. Then he got a larger part in a better show, until at nineteen he'd been cast in the very same role in a revival of West Side Story that he'd played in Penrose Road School years ago. He was on his way to the top.

  A famous songwriter had written a rock version of Othello specially for James Ogori and it was a tremendous success in London. Eventually, the show had gone to New York where James had been feted and adored and they'd made a film of it. Now everyone had heard of James Ogori and there was even talk of his being nominated for an Oscar.

  Someone had resurrected the nickname and there he was on the cover of smart magazines and Sunday colour supplements, his black skin glistening like satin and 'The Black Pearl' brazened underneath while a dozen of his ex-classmates claimed to have thought of it.

  Now, decided Miss Smith, he will come and see me. He's reached the very top of his career. Of course there is talk of more ambitious shows and films, but he will never be greater than he is today.

  So it was no surprise when the headmaster told her one morning, 'I've had a letter from James Ogori - well, from his agent, in actual fact. He's coming back for the end-of-term concert.'

  This year it was Godspell and Miss Smith told everyone that on no account must they be nervous because of James Ogori.

  So they weren't because hadn't he once been there and sat at Anna Fuenzig's desk in top class and danced on that very same stage, and his father had emptied their dustbins; it meant they, too, might well come back as honored guests in ten years' time.

  It was an adequate show. One of the girls had an exceptionally lovely voice, true and pure, so, you never knew! She might be as famous as Ogori one day. It was possible. Miss Smith had got her mother to arrange for real singing lessons.

  James sat in front with his mother, who'd reached the point in late acquired wealth where she could leave her mink coat at home and not mention the swimming pool in the garden of her country home. Mr Ogori had come too, for sentimental reasons, and also one of the brothers who was James's manager and a good one at that. Another brother was in America writing songs of rare quality. But the oldest one? Well, there were a case of bad apples in many families.

  After Miss Smith had thanked the children in her usual unemotional way, the headmaster came onto the stage and gestured to their guest to join them. Everyone cheered and clapped - they'd all heard so much about him. The children especially stared in awe.

  James came onto the stage holding something glittery in his hands and he went up to Miss Smith and slipped it over her head. It was a fragile chain on which hung a delicate shell and, nestling inside it - a black pearl.

  She stared down at the jewel without a word. She was grayer, more lined, perhaps because her beloved mother had recently died in great pain and the loss was hard to bear alone.

  Her ex-pupil towered above her, slim and powerful in his tight jeans and black leather top, his skin gleaming like ebony. He held out his arms.

  'They're going to dance!' someone murmured.

  James moved her gently backwards and she whispered urgently, 'No!'

  He looked startled. There'd been a note of near desperation in her voice.

  'Miss Smith,' he said quietly so only she could hear, 'one of the ambitions of my life has been to dance with you. I was never good enough till now.'

  James felt like a little boy again, back in her class, wanting her approval.

  Miss Smith gave a rare smile, but it was tinged with anxiety. She didn't want to disillusion him, spoil things after all this time. But there was no alternative now. She had to tell him.

  The audience was silent, wondering what was being said up there, wishing to be included.

  'I can't dance, James,' she whispered hoarsely. 'I've got two left feet. I'm clumsy, Uncoordinated. Nothing's right. All I can do is make other people dance.'

  She watched him worriedly, waiting for a frown and signs o
f disappointment. But James Ogori gave a gigantic grin and laughing, he picked Miss Smith up and carried her to the stage piano where he sat her, not too gently.

  'I love you, Miss Smith,' he yelled to the world.

  From Short Story International

  The Black One

  Charles Webster

  His name was Karrupan, meaning the Black One, and he was the guardian of Ganesha's statue. A powerful tale from Sri Lanka.

  IT WAS A PARTICULARLY UNPLEASANT STRETCH OF JUNGLE: CLOSE packed trees, soaking wet thorny undergrowth with leeches on almost every blade of grass. Apart from the leeches and an occasional monitor lizard, there seemed to be no wild life, if one ruled out a few fat green pigeons cooing and clattering their wings in the treetops.

  I had missed my way, as I had done on previous occasions when on foot alone in the jungle. The faint game trail I had been following had petered out, leaving me stranded in this inhospitable tangle. Somewhere, whether in front or behind me I was not sure, was the small camp I had set up in an old chena, or clearing, in the jungle. Having no compass with me, I could not tell in which direction I was heading and the canopy of leaves overhead was too thick for me to get a proper sight of the sun. I was glad that I had provided myself with a cut lime on the end of a pointed stick with which to dab the leeches that swarmed up my boots. The acid in the lime caused them to curl up and drop off, squirming and frothing.

  Hacking my way through the dense undergrowth, soaked to the skin, I eventually came out on to a narrow path that was not a game trail: a path that had obviously been made by human feet. I halted in surprise. Who would want to make a path in a place like this? It looked as though it was regularly used, twisting away through the trees, avoiding the clumps of thorny lantana scrub. Here there were few leeches and I decided to follow the path. Every road, lane or path leads somewhere, though by no means always where one wants to go. But to me, now, anywhere would be preferable to where I was. I sheathed the heavy knife I had been using to chop my way through the undergrowth and shouted loudly to warn anyone who might be about that I was coming. There was no answering shout.