Two

           We marched in a snaking line chained together by our arms and one leg.  The boy chained behind me was one of Akin’s friends from school, Farhani.  He was small and followed after Akin, chasing behind him to keep up.  Akin would tease him and say, “Here comes Last One.”  And there would be Farhani, far behind.  But Farhani didn’t seem to mind.  No one was faster than Akin.  There were other children he could have followed, other children who wouldn’t run past him on the way to school.  But Akin always let Farhani have the longest stick, and he paid attention to him.  Farhani always hung with Akin and with me.  Sometimes he was still there when we ate dinner after my father returned home from hunting when he brought back grasses or bone to make medicine for our people.  

“Do you think Akin’s gonna be alright?” Farhani asked.  “Oh, see there, he’s looking up.”  We were chained together and were being pulled by the faster walkers in front of us.  Farhani hopped along behind me.  He was also leading Akin’s horse.  The captor who had charge of the horse when we started had finally given up and Farhani had volunteered.  He didn’t complain.

“I see Akin’s hand moving,” Farhani said a bit later.

It looked to me like Akin’s hand moved when the horse bumped him up, but I said nothing.  The men had tried to leave Akin behind in our village, but I had lain on the ground beside him wailing until two men lifted him up and threw him over the horse.  My mother cried in my father’s arms.  My father’s face betrayed nothing.

Farhani and I walked for a long time in the line chained together with all the people in our village.  The women sang rhythmically, in pace with our steps.  After several hours of walking, our captors beat them with reeds and forced them to stop singing.   We didn’t stop for food or drink the first day until evening fell.  That night, we finally stopped so the men could give us a small cup of water and a bit of bread.  They took away the horse and left Akin with us.  I gave him a bit of my bread.  We sat, with our line curved back around itself.  Soon a rumble moved through the group that the men who captured us laid out their bedrolls and were lying down to sleep.  It looked like we were going to stay there and weren’t going to march anymore that night.  From where I sat, I could see my father and mother, now huddled together.  My father’s brow wrinkled and tears fell from my mother’s eyes.  My father eyed me and my brother wearily.  Akin had fallen asleep, and his chest whistled in and out.  Finally I leaned against Farhani to try to get some sleep.

In the morning, they awoke us with the sunrise to get moving again.  I nudged Akin awake. 

“Come on, get up,” I said to him. 

Akin grunted but didn’t speak.  He barely opened his eyes.  The coiled line of people in front of us was beginning to move, but I could see that Akin wasn’t strong enough to stand on his own. 

“My brother!” I shouted to one of the guards.  “He can’t walk!” 

The guard didn’t seem to take notice.  My father saw what was happening.

“Little one, you have to let him go now,” said my father.  The fold of line in front of him began to move away from me.

“But I can’t leave him here,” I said.  I began to wail.

Farhani shouted to another one of the guards as he walked by checking the chains on our arms and legs. 

“This boy can’t walk,” he said.  I continued to wail.  The guard called over another man and the two men conferred.

“If we try to leave him here, we’ll never get this line moving,” said the second man. 

The first guard got a horse and threw Akin over it.  Farhani took the horse’s lead.

The men marched us all the way to the sea where water lapped at the sides of a large boat I saw floating out in the water.   My skin felt gritty and wet, but there was no water on it.  I licked my arm, and it tasted salty.  I counted the waves as they foamed on the sand.  The water reflected pink and blue from the sky.  I had never seen anything like this place before.