Chapter Two: A Sorry Road
"If a path has no obstacles it probably doesn't lead anywhere"- Frank A. Clark
My grip on Tack's hatchet was slippery with sweat as I hacked at another branch that was in my way. The tool split through the branches middle and it swung down, leaving a clearing through the entangled foliage. I had traveled a mere two miles in an hour. The path twisted and turned, like streams branching off a river. The trail I walked shouldn't be called a road. Leaves and brush covered the dirt path and trees grew over it and on it. The shade was a welcome, but was countered with sap, leaves, and thorns.
Digging into my shoulders was a canvas drawstring bag I found underneath Mama's bed, under the thin floarboards of her sleeping pallet. In it were glass jars, old magazines, a cylinder that provided artificial light when you pressed a button, clothes, and many other objects that must've been brought from the city where Mama came from. They lied on top of each other in a color-drained heap.
I guessed she hid those treasures under the bed because they brought up painful memories from her childhood, yet she never touched them or threw them away. I had discovered the secret stash while playing hide and seek five years ago, when I was ten years old. Before I could run to tell Tack, Papa stormed into the room, his eyes wild when they landed on me crouched down on my knees. He had run over to me and shook me hard, his fingers wrapped around my upper arm like a boa constrictor around a spider monkey.
"Never, EVER touch this stuff, are you listening Mezirae?! This is your mother's stuff and she would be very mad, even more furious than me if she saw you doing this. You're lucky she's out in the garden now. Understand?!"
"Papa you're hurting me," I whimpered, but he didn't loosen his grip and the fire in his eyes didn't cool. I knew he was serious because he had used my full name.
"Understand?!" He repeated, more forcefully that time. I nodded, sniffling. He let go of my arm and placed his big paw-like hands on my shoulders.
"Why?" I asked. Papa sighed and looked down at the cubby I opened.
"Your mother is from a big city, far away. Her childhood was very hard and wasn't as nice as yours is. These are from the city and Mama wouldn't want you to see them. That's all I can tell you," he told me, more gently. He shooed me towards the door, and I went back to playing hide-and-seek with Tack, but I wasn't really in the mood. After a few minutes I had sat down at the back steps, watching Mama.
Mama was smiling and pulling weeds out of the soft soil of her garden. She was bouncing a two year old Amka up and down on her lap. Amka was giggling, a bright flower tangled in her black curls. Mama hadn't looked like someone who was broken by her childhood and living with painful memories, but I didn't want to test that idea. I kept quiet about my discovery and almost completely forgot about it.
The mosquitos were horrible as the sun continued in it's descent towards the ground. I waved my hands around madly as another swarm hit me. I had bites sprinkling my arms and a particularily annoying spot on my back I couldn't reach. I was thankful for the clothes I found in Mama's secret space because they covered me much more effectively than my old, baggy dress would have. When one mosquito landed in my mouth, I snapped. I swatted at the bugs furiously while making my way to a log that laid across the path.I plopped down on it, my aching muscles sighing in relief as I sat on the soft rotting, damp wood.
I was accustomed to mosquitos, but never ventured far from our house which had a continuous fire going. It's smoke had warded off the worst of the mosquitos, so I might as well have been naked for how exposed I felt sitting on the log. I swung my pack around onto my lap, grumbling about how I should've set the clothes I was wearing over the fire so some smoke filtered through. I pulled open the bag and a wave of black grief crashed over me.
Mama had touched every piece of food in every clay jar, had grown and harvested them in our own yard which Papa and Tack had taken care of so well. Amka had helped make the jam, her smiling face stained with the colors of the fruits we put in.
I choked, my lungs constricting. Suddenly I couldn't get enough air. The bag slipped out of my stiff numb hands and I didn't bother to pick it up. Despair replaced the acrimony in my blood. I wrapped my arms around myself, tears soaking my cheeks. My arms were thin but strong. Not strong enough to be Papa's. Not rough enough to be Tack's. Not smooth enough to be Mama's. Not gentle enough to be Amka's. I closed my eyes and let the mosquitos bite my bare skin, not caring.
What right do I have to live anyway? Am I better than the good people my family were? NO. Bitter thoughts filled my skull, and I let my chin fall to my chest in defeat, as if the negative thoughts were physically weighing me down. I propped myself up, leaning on my hands. I stayed there for a good while, no part of me moving except the tears trailing down my face.
Something brushed against my hand, something larger than the usual bug, pulling me out of my black hole of thoughts. My head turned around to confront my next attacker. I expected a huge mosquito, but instead what I saw made my heart stop. Fear whipped me, causing my heart to pump again, only ten times faster now. I held my breath as the thing moved over my hand, which was behind me.
A snake. It was about as thick as my finger, but was at least four feet long, it's body stretching over the log. It's green scales were warm as they moved across my one hand, then headed to the other. I bit my lip hard. It's eyes were a sticky yellow and it's triangle shaped head was facing forward. It didn't seem to notice that the thing it was moving over was alive and had warm blood running through it's veins.
Was this good? I didn't know. I didn't know what type of snake it even was, maybe a vine snake. It could be poisonous if it was.
Was this fate? Had some superior being above me taken pity and sent an angel of death in the form of a snake to end my misery?
I stopped watching the slow snake and tilted my head back, looking at the sky through a canopy of leaves. From what I could see it was a soft pink mixed with warm oranges, like a soup of warm and soft colors. This wouldn't be such a bad place to die, I thought, ignoring the pestering mosquitos and listening to birds call to each other. I closed my eyes and played through my memories like I imagined people on the verge of death would do. I thought of my family before the plague that tore us apart, when the world was just us and smiles all day, everyday. I smiled, the shadows cool on my face.
"I'm ready," I whispered, feeling the snake slide over my other hand.
But the bite didn't come. I braced myself for fangs sinking into my thin hands, venom traveling through my veins like a fire up a rope soaked in oil. I waited to fall into paralysis, which I pretended would be sleep, not me dying. Just sleeping, surrounded by the sounds of nature and dreaming with my family. But that didn't happen. I felt the snake's tail leave my hand, and turned to watch it stretch up to a branch hanging over the log.
"Forgetting something?" I called, my peaceful expression hardening into a scowl. I brought my hands to my lap, folded them into a nice knot while screaming obscenities at the false death angel. It didn't even acknowledge me. "Guess I'm condemned to this sorry life and am bound to travel on this CRAPPY ROAD FOREVER!" I said, my voice growing in volume as a mosquito landed on my hand knot. I watched it as it sucked my blood, it's proboscis a needle into my skin.
"Doesn't taste good, does it? Maybe you're my death angel. Got any Malaria on you?" I asked the mosquito flatly, thinking about stories of villagers nearby dying of a disease transported by the annoying little buggers. I unfolded my hands and clapped them, smashing the fat mosquito between my palms. "Not today," I mumbled wiping the blood off my hands, and picked up my bag. I opened it and rifled through it's contents to pull out a fruit, which was the reason I sat down in the first place.
The fruit was a huito fruit, wrapped in cloth like the other fresh fruits I placed in the bag. It was a greyish-green color and was small enough to fit in my hand. I took Papa's pocketknife and cut through the skin, down to the light colored insides. Pulling the fruit open, I scooped out the contents and began rubbing it on my bare skin. The juice turned to a dark blue shade like that of a summer night sky as I smeared it up and down my bare arms. I bit my lip again as my mosquito bites began to itch and burn. I hoped Mama knew what she was talking about when she said the juice of the fruit would keep bugs at bay.
I was wearing a soft short sleeve shirt and long, swishy black pants that were tight around the ankles. The shirt was red and a little loose because it was Mama's old shirt, but it was bearable. My "heavy duty" sandals were strapped to my feet. They were made of tough brown water resistant material that criss-crossed over my feet and the bottoms were stiff, but padded.
I examined the map that used to hang over the kitchen cupboards as I chewed on some roasted cashew nuts. It was creased and worn, and Papa's signature was on the back. Stretching over the top of the page was the word "Brazilia".
I had never heard of it before. After a few minutes of frustration and blurred lines I tore the map in two, the ripping sound loud in the noisy forest. I had no idea where I had started, where our home was, or where I was even heading to. Ha, I didn't even know for sure if the map was of my country!
My plan to start a new life from a distance looked like a magnificent, towering tree, but up close it was riddled with holes and indentations, the branches drooping and the leaves brittle. All I knew was that their were a bunch of cities north, and south of our hut were a couple of large rivers and more cities. Papa always said if anything happened, head north for about two days and you should reach a village. Sighing, I ran my fingers through my damp hair.
Night was falling over the raucous forest like a cloak. In the fading light I scampered off the road as quietly as I could, even though the sounds of the cicada's buzzing was enough to mask my footsteps. Surrounded by the trees and away from the path was like being in a whole other world; a terrifying world, with glowing eyes in the bushes and dark figures whooshing overhead on silent wings.
I piled my hair in a bun on top of my head, securing it with a twig I found on the ground and a piece of twine from home. I smiled, remembering begging Mama to show me how to put my hair up like she did, with just a stick and some string. She had shown me, and then it became second nature to me. The smile faded as I realized I had never taught Amka how to make the bun.
I set to work making camp, clearing away sticks and leaves with the hatchet, eyes wide to catch any snakes or spiders. I flinched at any movement in the nearby brush, gasped at every shriek in the trees above me. Once the ground was smooth and cleared I dug a shallow hole with my fingers, pulling out roots and tossing aside grubs and other insects. I shook my bag off of my shoulders and placed it in the hole after taking out a few items.
I worked vigorously, needing to keep my mind occupied, or it would snap back to my losses, and sadness would quench the fire of hope I was making. I gathered twigs and small sticks to make a real fire, sweat trickling down the side of my face. I covered the hole with dirt and packed the soil tightly, smashing it down with my fists. I couldn't risk any animals stealing my bag in the night. As an extra precaution I laid the small pile of sticks I gathered over the spot where my pack was.
I grabbed the box of matches that were lying behind me. Tack had soaked each strip of wood with tar and I sent a silent prayer of thanks to him where ever he was as I struck a match against a rock that was also in the box. It sparked, then grew into a flame the second time I tried. I whooped, then thrust it towards the pile of tinder in front of me. Crouched in front of it, I watched the blue flame on the match fizzle out and die. Frowning, I rolled back onto my heels and tried again with a different match. The same thing happened. I grabbed a stick from the pile and examined it in the dark.
It was damp. I closed my eyes slowly, wanting to scream. How was I so stupid? Wood that is wet won't light, even Amka would know that! In one blow with my hand I sent the pile of sticks flying. Well, so much for a fire, I thought gloomily. I shrugged on a jacket made of the same material my pants were and zipped it all the way up. I grabbed the metal cylinder that produced fake blue light that I put in the pocket and used it to find some leaves to pile around me. I remembered pressing the button on it for the first time, when I found it in my mother's secret hole, and crying out as it's bright light stabbed my eyes.
As I shuffled around for leaves I was careful and held the knife-like light away from me. What if all city light was like this? A small voice in my head said. Maybe it's not such a good thing... I shoved the thought away and plopped down on my pile of leaves, a handful of fresh cerezas in my hand. I spit one of their pits out and watched it disappear into the darkness of the surrounding forest. The red color of the cerezas matched my shirt and I felt guilty eating the fruit.
What if I ran out of food? What if I starved? Thoughts like this flew through my head. They're going to rot anyway, might as well eat them now , I mused and popped another cereza into my mouth. All too soon my hands were stained red and empty, and so was my stomach. I grumpily tugged my hood over my head and pulled the jacket's strings, covering my whole face except my eyes. I wrapped the exposed parts of my feet and ankles with leaves.
I felt like I was in a little cocoon of my own and wrapped my arms around my knees, falling onto my side. To my surprise the moist earth didn't soak through my jacket or pants. I smiled faintly, thinking of how the smallest things can cheer a person up. I fell into a fitful sleep, amid the cacophony of the jungle night, after my mind replayed the last days of Amka and Papa's life. I couldn't help thinking that Mama accepted death as if it was an old friend.
***
I jerked awake, sitting up abruptly and sending leaves fluttering towards the ground. The whirring sound cut through the forest again, a low rumble. Everything was dark and my heart pounded mercilessly against my chest. I reached for the light and threw it's beam all around me, finally finding the creator of the noise. A medium sized bird tilted it's brown-feathered head to one side, peering at me. I sighed in relief as the copy bird opened it's beak and the odd sound poured out.
The copy bird was Mamey and I's favorite bird. They weren't very common, but we could always tell when one was around. Once, Papa had been out in the yard talking to me through the window, when something repeated his last sentence back at him from the trees. He had swivelled around, eyes bulging.
"Who's there?" he cried. Then a plump mouse-brown bird waddled out.
"Who's there?" it repeated, ruffling it's feathers. The air whooshed out of Papa in relief.
I had laughed. "You got tricked by a bird, Papa!" The bird copied me, then the sound of pots banging in the kitchen that Mama made while cooking. Mama joined me at the window, frowning because she worried that Tack had taken some of her kitchen pots outside. She laughed along with me when she saw the source of the noise.
I turned the light off and laid back down. My heart was still performing a desperate dance in my chest.
The low vibrating sound pulled up memories from the corners of my mind where the images of learning to swim and being carefree were stowed away. The last time I had heard that sound was before Amka was born.
Mama and I had been taking a walk in the woods, laughing about something, when the same noise strummed the air. Mama stopped laughing immediately and grabbed my arm, squeezing tight as she yanked me down. Low on the ground, being sheltered by the leaves, Mama's sweaty hand clamped down on my mouth. I squirmed, then went limp when I saw the cause of the loud sound through the branches.
A hulking machine, as big and the color of a stormcloud, floated overhead. It swam through the air, sending wind rushing down. It shook the leaves and caused my hair to swirl like ink in water. It was gone in a few moments, and the sound began to fade gradually. Mama waited a long time, after the beast was gone and the smell of future rain began to permeate the air.
Finally, she took her hand off my mouth. "What was that!" I had meant to burst out, but instead a whimper hopped out of my throat. Mama saw the terror and confusion churning in my eyes, and hugged me.
"Those were bad people, Mezzy. Don't ask me about them or talk about them ever again, understand?" I had nodded, even though I hadn't said a word, let alone asked a question.
My memory was fuzzy after that. I struggled to remember if the machine had reappeared any other time in my life, but it hadn't. I held the cylinder in my hand, passing it back and forth between my fingers, my mind lost in thought.
After remembering and coming up with nothing, I fell asleep again.