The Ink Bridge (6 page)

As the winter took hold, the Americans claimed victory over the Taliban, and the agencies tried to talk the people into going home. A hundred dollars was offered to each returning refugee. Buses were provided to cross the mountains. But it was common knowledge that the Taliban were still in Afghanistan. Omed knew one hundred dollars would not keep him safe from their reach.

Omed noticed the snow on the mountains as he returned from breakfast one morning. The cold had crept in like a beast, low to the ground, snapping the air. In the long winters of Bamiyan they had fire and song to keep them going. Here it was different.

The warmest place was beneath a blanket, so Omed got back in his cot and counted the holes and tears in the tent roof. It was quiet, just the far-off noise of a slow song droning from a nearby radio.

The Poet was in bed too. Omed noticed the strange colour of his cheeks – like
naan
dropped in water. He scrambled from under his covers and watched the Poet's shoulders, waiting for the rise and fall that would show he was breathing. But there was nothing. He put his ear to the man's lips but heard nothing.

Fear fell upon him like a hawk, tearing at him. The knowledge that once again he would be alone crushed his ribs and forced the breath from him. Bamiyan had been his world, he knew everyone and was known by everyone; he belonged there. Here, he only had this old man.

Omed shook the Poet and, as the old man rolled over, he groaned. But the groan was only his soul departing. He was cold as stone. Omed pulled at his clothes and moaned. He bit the back of his own hand and blinked away the tears. He would not allow this. He sat the old man up, his body already stiffening. He poured warm water from the stove over the Poet's hands and rubbed them. He buried his face in his shoulder and begged him to return.

Eventually, he went outside and sat on the cold ground to weep. The tears turned to ice on his cheeks, scouring them like glaciers. They turned to acid in the corners of his eyes. He was poisoned by sorrow.

He borrowed a shovel with a splintered handle and a worn crescent across the cutting edge. He piled the Poet's carefully washed body on a cart and wheeled it to a patch of ground beyond the camp. The cart had a squeaky wheel and as he travelled it spoke to him:

How does a corpse differ from a body? When does a man
cease to become ‘he' and become ‘it'? Is this all there is after
a life so full?

Cheap plywood coffins stood upright guarding the entrance to the burial ground. Refugees returning to Afghanistan would carry the dead back to the places of their birth so they would be buried in their own soil. This was impossible for Omed. The Poet had long given up on his country anyway. He owed no loyalty to his tribe, his village. Now his spirit was free of this earth. There was no fence around the burial ground, just a ring of stones to keep the dead from wandering.

Omed attacked the ground with the shovel. The soil was hard with frost and each strike shook his shoulders. His grief was made real by this. He dug until his hands blistered and burst, until the shovel handle was red with blood. He sweated and cried and couldn't tell the difference between the two. And when the hole was deep enough, he carefully lowered the Poet in.

He should have fetched the mullah to say the prayers, but the man had a reputation for greed. Instead, Omed spoke the proper words in his mind. It was all he could do. And with that done he pulled the blanket over the Poet's face and shovelled in the soil.

When the crying was over, Omed returned to the tent. Thieves had already been, pulling apart the Poet's meagre possessions, stealing what little he had. They had ripped the small book he used to write in and scattered it around.

Omed gathered the pages. There were pieces of poetry he had written throughout his travels. He found one from the Poet's time in the Bamiyan valley.

How high these walls,

but they cannot hold the sky

How sharp the sword of the conqueror,

but it does not cut me now

How cold the snow,

but it does not trick the spring

How beautiful the Buddha's smile,

but it did not last forever

How glorious is peace,

but war is trapped inside me.

He had painted beautiful miniatures around the poem in the style of an ancient Persian text. There was the grandson of Genghis Khan, felled by an arrow in the Shahr-e Zohak. There was the Buddha's smile, waiting to be erased by the invaders from Persia. There was the Poet with the blue of his eyes and the power of his youth.

Omed crumpled the page to his chest. He would never get used to death, no matter how many times it was paraded in front of him.

There was another page on the floor. It had been stepped on and partly torn, but Omed could still make out the words.

Dear Grandson,

It is without regret that I leave this world that has been both fair and hard to me. I had hoped to one day watch the waves reach the sky, but now this dusty camp will be my last memory. This dusty camp where I met you. If you have the courage and the inspiration for the journey to the waves, it is one you should make. Everyone deserves a chance at freedom, a chance at forever.

The journey will be difficult and dangerous, but there is one part I can help you with. The rest will be up to you, but I have confidence in you. You are strong and you have a fire inside you. Do not be afraid of your words. They are everything.

There is money. Below my seat is your chance at forever.

With great affection,

Your Grandfather

Omed sat with the page in his hand, letting his tears blur the words. He knew what he must do. He packed his bag and walked quietly out of the tent.

The Poet's rock, the one he sat on watching the mountains, mirrored the morning sun. Omed stood above it, remembering how the Poet looked and sounded. Omed's father would have liked him. He had courage and faith, in himself and in others.

The rock was warm, like a living thing. Rolling it over, Omed quickly scraped at the dirt with his hands. There was nothing. He grew furious, like a dog burrowing in the soil. The earth stung his blistered hands, it was cold and filled with sharp slivers of stone. Wounds opened and his fingers bled. He kept digging.

Eventually, his fingers struck something harder than dirt. He scraped around it until he could see the outline of a tin box. He wrenched it out, hugged it to his body and ran. Behind him, a ribbon of shouting children and curious adults who had gathered while he dug wound through the camp. He ducked into a tent and hid, his heart leaping in his chest.

As the gang of people ran past, Omed swallowed his breath. He was afraid that any movement or sound would give him away. Blood shouted in his ears. His head whirled. Then, as the last of the stragglers darted after the trail of dust, he breathed again.

‘What have you there?' asked a man's voice from an unlit corner.

Omed jumped and brought the box closer to his chest.

‘I am a friend,' said the voice. ‘Why does everyone follow you?' it asked. ‘What do you have in your box?'

The voice was thicker than smoke. It bristled with the sharp points of daggers.

Omed pushed the box inside his shirt.

‘Friend, it is me,' said the voice and the Snake stepped out of the shadow. ‘There should be no hard feelings.'

Omed showed his teeth, hard against each other.

The Snake grabbed his arm. ‘Wait, I have news of your family.'

The box slumped down inside Omed's shirt, fell to his stomach. He fought to stay on his feet.

The Snake smiled and nodded. Omed could see his forked tongue, sneaking up behind rotten teeth. ‘Yes, yes, news of your family.' He slithered beside Omed, wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

‘They send their greetings,' he said.

Omed narrowed his eyes.

‘And of course their love,' he added hastily. ‘That as well, of course.'

The Snake stepped uneasily from one foot to another. ‘They are well. They are very well; excellent, I would say. But as for me, I am not so good. Things have gone badly for me and it was impossible for me to stay in Afghanistan.' He looked up at the roof of the tent. ‘Running a business such as mine requires a great amount of money. I have to pay
everyone
,' he hissed, through gritted teeth, ‘to make sure things run smoothly.'

Omed shook his head, but the Snake ignored him and carried on. ‘I have big debts. Debts to people that it is not good to be in debt to.

‘So is it not funny how fate throws us together? Both without a country. Both hoping for a new life. We should help each other. Maybe what you have in your box could aid us in our escape?'

Omed shrugged off his arm and tried to leave, but the Snake grasped at an elbow and spun him around. ‘Do you think I am a fool? Do you think I have not been on this earth long enough to read people's faces. This is my business! I
know
what is in your box.' His face softened again and his large eye shone like the moon reflected in a stagnant pond.

‘I am sure we can both profit from this situation,' he said, his voice suddenly soft as milk. ‘You have no idea how to escape this place, but you have the money to do it. I have no money, but all the contacts and plans. If you help me, then I will help you. It is a simple deal.'

His face was lumpy with smallpox scars. Omed didn't trust him, but what option did he have?

‘It is up to you and how much money we have as to where we go. Where do you wish – Sweden, America?' There was a pause before he asked, ‘Australia?' Omed pursed his lips, and the Snake's eyes slitted for a second as he saw he had won a small war.

‘Australia is a beautiful country, full of fair-minded people. We will have a good life there. You will see.'

He moved forward and put his hand on the box, but Omed turned to block him, pulling his jacket over to cover it further.

‘As you wish,' he said.

OMED AND THE SNAKE CROSSED the camp, walking until they seeped like two drops of ink into the starless night. No one would cry at night or think of them. No one would even know they had gone.

Sometime before dawn, Omed fell asleep and dreamed he was home. His father was sitting reading under the gentle light of a lamp, his mother softly singing Liaquat to sleep. He could feel the warm curves of his brothers at his back and belly, like punctuation, bracketing him. But when he woke it was to the pox-scarred Snake, smiling.

‘Soon Lahore,' he said. ‘Gateway to Australia – The Lucky Country.'

Beyond the Snake's lumpy profile, the dust of Pakistan rose in clouds. Men beat overladen donkeys down the road. The smell of sewerage swung out of villages.