The Ink Bridge (16 page)

They ran most of the night, moving away from the lights of the nearby town. Finally, they lay in a dry riverbed, shivering with cold and exhaustion until the sun reached out with its broad arms and held the desert. As Omed waited for the sun to warm him, he watched an army of ants crawling over the sand, searching for water and food. How would they survive with nothing? The back of his throat already ached from lack of water. He swallowed what little spit he had, but his own body's moisture would evaporate soon enough.

They found patchy shade under a thin tree. The hours passed slowly. Omed tried not to move, to use any energy. There was a time, when the sun was at its highest, when even the ants stopped.

They began walking again as the sun dropped, following the point on the earth that the Southern Cross showed. The Snake talked, filling the open space with his voice as if he feared the silence.

‘There is money to be made in Afghanistan again, I hear. The opium fields are blooming. Westerners are greedy for heroin. If only I could return home. And escape this hell.' He kicked at the dust that had turned from red to blue in the dim starlight.

They came across the corpse of a camel. Its legs spread out as if it had been flattened from above. The stench was overpowering, but Omed wondered if they could eat it. Wild dogs had torn at the carcass and Omed and the Snake heard their mournful howls.

‘We must get away from here. The animals will be back and we shall be next on their table.'

The next morning it rained and they busied themselves finding small puddles in the rocks. The water tasted of the earth, but it was good. They made for a rocky outcrop before the heat of the day dried what little moisture they had gained.

Omed and the Snake crept into the shade of an overhanging rock and lay down. The ground was smooth and dusty. On the ceiling of the cave, paintings had been made from white and red earth. There were pictures of kangaroos and bird-headed animals, strange snake-necked tortoises, men with spears and the outlines of hands. It gave Omed some comfort to realise that they were not the only ones to know this place. There were also pictures of fish that swam before his eyes on cool currents.

He sat up suddenly. If there were fish then surely there was water.

‘Where are you going, boy?' asked the Snake, his large eye appearing like a moon.

Omed waved him off and entered the glaring light. It made him dizzy and his head throbbed from thirst. The sun was high and it nipped the back of his neck as he skirted the outcrop, climbing over boulders and weaving through patches of shade.

When he saw the colour, he could not be sure if it was real. Suddenly there was green where there had only been red earth and blue sky. There were fringes of it peeking from behind rocks, creeping over the ground. Omed followed it and, as it became denser, he heard the sound of birds. Small birds, like the singing canaries in the bazaar. Not the fearful screech of the death hawks.

As he climbed onto a rock, he found himself overlooking a pond. The water was yellow-green, like the eyes of a cat. The branches of nearby trees pierced its surface. It was as close to paradise as Omed had known. He crept down and, sinking to his knees, began to sob; but his body refused to make the tears. The water was soft and cool on his lips. But it entered him like a knife. Too cold. Too much. He gagged. Rolled onto his back, clutching his stomach. When he recovered, he washed his face and his arms and sipped a little more, carefully letting it ease into his throat.

Once he had water his brain began to work again. He would leave the Snake on the other side of the rocks. He was old and lazy, he would sleep until death snuck up on him and rattled his bones. Then he would be rid of him. But what then? Omed knew the Snake would be his voice when they reached people. It was the same quandary that had plagued him since the camp in Pakistan. He hated the Snake, but they needed each other.

And so Omed woke him and led him to the water.

‘For a village boy you are clever,' he said as he plunged his dirty body into the pool. ‘What? Why do you look at me like that? Is this not a good place for a bath?' He sat up to his chin in the water, letting it drift in and out of his mouth. ‘If there was food then this would be heaven.'

They lay on a slab of rock in the shade. Now his thirst had gone, Omed thought of
kabob
,
shorwa
,
pulao
,
naan
,
chay
and fat pomegranate. He could taste these things as if they were in his mouth. His teeth closed on the pomegranate seeds, they exploded on his tongue. His stomach twisted like a laundered shirt.

He tried to think of something else. Turning to the water, he noticed a small dark shape. It looked like the head of a snake. Slowly, it made its way to the bank and pulled its shelled body onto the sand. Omed got to his feet and jumped on the water-tortoise. He held it in his hands as it snapped at him with its beak.

‘What will you do with it now?' asked the Snake, his tongue drugged with sleep. ‘We should eat it.'

Omed looked at the poor animal flapping helplessly in his hands.

‘Have you not the stomach to kill it? Here, give it to me.'

The Snake grabbed at the tortoise. But Omed pulled it free. He had never killed an animal to eat. He knew it had to be done quickly in the
halal
manner, with a sharp knife to the throat, and that the name of Allah must be pronounced over it. The animal must be completely bled. He had watched the butchers at work in the bazaar by the river in Bamiyan.

With a quick movement, the Snake had it in his hands and smashed it onto a rock. The shell split open and the Snake's greedy fingers were inside pulling at the live flesh. Omed was disgusted; the animal was
haraam
if it was beaten to death. But he was also hungry. He fought for his share.

There was no thought of cooking it. No time, no fire. Never had he eaten food in this way, but Omed knew it would keep him alive. How quickly the water-tortoise had turned from animal to food.

They were still hungry after the tortoise and they scoured the water for more. But apart from a few small, quick fish they found nothing.

Omed fell asleep on the rock and it was dark when he woke. He heard a familiar whisper from the water. He crept to the edge of the pond and saw the dark silhouette of the mother and her children.

You must keep going. This is no place for you. Keep following
the stars.

Omed woke the Snake and although he grumbled, they drank their fill at the pond and started walking south again.

Omed looked at his feet. There were ripples. Dark red eddies. He looked at the air where the death hawks spiralled. He looked at the long straightness ahead. It sparkled like water – like a river – but the animals that came to drink at it had been buckled and shunted to death. Omed shook his head. It ached. Night was far behind them. They had given up its cover and its guiding stars. The guards no longer seemed their biggest danger.

He heard a noise. A low drumming. Behind him, the Snake sat in the dirt, his knees around his ears, his arms over his head. The drumming got louder and the Snake looked up. He licked his cracked lips.

The image shimmered like a dream. It had a big flat face, many eyes. It roared as it came. Omed took a step back. When it stopped there was a moment of quiet. A tick, tick, like fingernails on a
chay
glass. The buzz of many flies. They crawled inside his mouth and nose. Heat tunnelled up into his feet.

Then a door opened.

‘You clowns tryin to get yersels killed?'

There was a blast of cold air and Omed wanted more than anything to be inside away from the sun.

‘You fellas don't look so clever. Whaddya doin wandrin roun out here?'

The Snake opened his mouth, but his voice had dried to a frog-whisper.

‘Climb up and I'll give yuz a lift to town.'

They got in. The seat was cloud-soft, the air was as chilled as a snow-wind.

‘Get some sky juice into yer.' He handed Omed a canteen. ‘Can't believe yuz are out here without water.'

They fell asleep almost immediately and when Omed woke the sky was on fire. The driver smiled at him with metal-strapped teeth.

‘D'yer car break down, did it? Must've missed her on the road.' He looked at Omed, back at the road, back to Omed.

‘You can't jus go swannin round out here. Stoo bloody hot. The sun'll boil yer scone off. Water's the key out here. See the body's up around ninety per cent water and you can't do without the stuff. Food you can live without, fer a while anyways, but water, now that's another matter entirely. Take this truck frinstance. Fill her guts up with diesel and then let her run dry. Fill her up again, bleed her, and she'll run as sweet as ever. But don't give her water and she's knackered. Motor'll seize tight as a drum. Same deal with your human body. Minus the bleedin, of course,'

He paused and looked expectantly at Omed.

‘So where are you clowns headed? Gotta be Marree if yer headed north.'

North? They were headed south.

‘Yer in luck if it's Marree cuz that's where I'm goin. Couple more hours of this road and I'll be puttin me head on me own pillow. Yuz are welcome to bunk in with me if yuz want.'

The driver rubbed his hand over his hair. ‘Geez, you don't say a whole lot do you. Reckon it must be all that sun. It'll do that – rattle the old voicebox.'

He looked at Omed and shook his head until his helmet of hair quivered.

‘Howzabout some tunes,' he said, stabbing a finger at the radio.

. . . twelve-thirty Tuesday morning. They are without
food and water in the desert region surrounding the
Centre. Authorities fear for their safety . . .

‘Like you two, eh?' said the driver.

. . . anyone who has information about their
whereabouts should contact police. People found
harbouring the escapees can face up to ten years'
prison—

‘Enough talkin. Let's have some music. You like country? Course you do. Everyone likes country.'

The man pushed a tape into the player.

‘This is Ted Egan. You'll love him. He writes about this land out here.' The driver swept his hand at the windscreen and the deep shadows outside. ‘He knows it.'

The sound of drumming rolled into the space between them. And then a man singing.

‘This song's bout an old camel driver – an Afghan. They built this country up from nothin and all they left behind was a few camels, some mud mosques and a bit of blood. Never got so much as a thank you.'

He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

‘My grandad was a cameleer, y'know.' His eyes were on the road, but Omed could see he was looking beyond the halo of the lights, beyond the twisted bushes and dark shapes.

‘He came here from Afghanistan some time in the early 1900s.'

The drums came through in the music.

‘There was a lot of em here back then. Came to build the railway north, put in stock routes, deliver supplies. Same as now, doin jobs no one else wanted. People hated em, even though they was the ones that brought the water and supplies through miles of burnin sand and rock, sleepin rough under the sky. One time my grandad and his two mates stopped to wash themselves at a waterhole; before prayer, y'know. So some old bugger cocky farmer up and shot his two mates and wounded Grandad. All over a bit of bloody water. He had that hole in his leg till he died. I could put my finger right in it when I was a boy.'

The truck's engine hummed; the Snake snorted in the dark air.

‘He met Granny on a station up north. She was full-blood Aboriginal, tribal woman. She was young, maybe seventeen or eighteen and beautiful, thick hair, skin like midnight. I seen the pictures and she was a looker. Grandad was an old man by those days. He had grey in his beard, must've been forty, easy. But it was love awright. If not at first, then later. Grandad went properly and arsked the elders if they could marry, he was a traditional man, see. They okayed it, but the Protector of Aborigines, he said no. But they went ahead and did it anyways. Lived through some hard times because of that decision.'