The Crisis by David Poyer Read Free Book Online

blade of grass is left on the stony ground. She moans, hands hiding her face. Should she go back to the village? But then she’ll never see Ghedi or Nabil again. Her little brother’s so small. She saved the last piece of corn bread for him.
    When she comes across the road again she sinks into the dust. People trudge by. They look dazed. Before they were all walking in one direction. Now they wander, women without
hijab
, men without shirts, calling in cracked voices to those who’ve vanished. A blind man totters past, groping the air, scabbed eyes lifted as if he can see. She sits. A man speaks to her. He compliments her eyes, her small feet. She doesn’t answer or look up, and at last he goes on.
    Toward evening she wakes from wherever she was. She eats the last crust. Her teeth hurt. The stars are coming out. One is so bright, like a candle in the sky. Maybe that’s where Paradise is.
    She decides to go back to the village. She’s afraid to go toward the city now. Even if Uncle’s there. She has a confused notion they’re still there, she’ll push the gate open and there’ll be her mother feeding the chickens, the baby on her hip, her brothers wrestling in the shade. This is some evil dream, sent by the Devil.
    An old Bantu offers her a ride on his donkey. She’s afraid but his kind face makes her trust him. He asks where she’s going, and she says the name of her village. His face changes. “That was a sanctuary for the rebels,” he says.
    We weren’t rebels, she wants to say, but doesn’t. Still, the old man lets her ride nearly all night before he lifts her down.
    For the next two days she walks. She holds out a hand to passing people. Someone throws something from a passing truck. She almost ignores it, then realizes it’s a half-eaten banana. She wolfs it down, then staggers off the road, sick to her stomach.
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    SHE’S walking along a road that seems to be high above all the lands around it. Then she’s not there, that’s all, it’s as if she’s fallen asleep.
    When she wakes she’s still walking, but now she’s with a group of women. They’re trudging through a village. All its doors are closed. Not even a cock crows as they plod through. It’s so much like a dream she can’t believe she’s awake. Dust bakes in the noon sun. Something sparkles and she bends. Cartridge casings lie scattered like chickens’ corn along the street. There are stains in the dust too. But no people.
    The well’s capped with a wooden lid. When the refugees drag it off a black cloud rises, buzzing like a rainstorm. So many flies the light fades like a rain cloud’s passing.
    She can’t see what’s down there, only the shocked faces of the women around it. She clings to one and says she’s thirsty, why aren’t they drawing water. The woman pushes her away. She says, “There are too many bodies.”
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    AS the days pass she feels less hungry but more ill. Her legs ache as if someone’s twisting knotted ropes under her skin. Every few minutes she has to move off the road and squat and lift her skirt. Filth covers the ground. Dirtiness drizzles out of her and she feels dizzy. She feels feverish, then chilled, as if ice encases her even in the sun. She’s had fevers before. But at home there was a bed to lie in, and her mother would bringgoat’s milk and treats. She lies on the ground and moans for her mother, her family, for the smell of the mangoes.
    Eventually she realizes this isn’t the way to the village. Mountains rise on the horizon, peaks she’s never seen before. She trades the
xirsi
amulet to drink from a well guarded by men who murmur that the refugees are unclean, they can’t be trusted, they work for the government. She wants to say this isn’t true. The government burned our village. But she dares not. The well’s surrounded by feces and sick people