Bamboo People (12 page)

“He’s
Burmese,”
I say, the frustration ringing in my voice. “Why are we helping him, Peh?”

“He’s hurt badly. The animals will tear him to pieces tonight.”

“Then we should end his pain now,” I say, handing Peh one of the rifles. “It’s loaded. I checked.”

Slowly Peh takes the rifle. “We could do that,” he says. “But there’s another choice.”

“What?”

“We could carry him to the healer’s hut.”

Was I hearing right? “No, Peh! We promised the men we’d go back.”

“I made that promise, Tu Reh,” Peh says. “You didn’t.”

My heart sinks. What’s he saying? What does he want me to do?

Peh reaches for my bamboo pole, and I give it to him. He holds it in one hand and the rifle in his other. It looks almost like he’s weighing them.

“A man full of hatred is like a gun, my son,” Peh says. “He can be used for only one purpose—to kill.”

I know. That’s what I want to do, what I’ve dreamed of constantly since we escaped—making the Burmese pay.

Peh hands the rifle to me. Then, with a swift flick of his wrist, he tosses the bamboo pole high in the air. It’s light, so it rises easily and arcs and falls without a sound.

We each catch an end. “The rifles are good, Peh. You’re glad we have them, aren’t you?”

“I am glad. I’m not denying that. It’s a find, four rifles and ammunition, too. But could you kill a wild animal with this bamboo, Tu Reh?”

“Yes, Peh.”

He knew I could. I fought off a wild pig once. The animal raced right at my sister, and I beat it so badly we cooked it the next day. But I’ve also hunted with rifles, and so has Peh.

“What else can you do with it, Tu Reh? Do you remember harvesting it?”

We’re still holding the bamboo like a bridge. I picture our beautiful grove dancing in the sunlight and the wind, and for a second it’s hard to answer. “Mua cooks it,” I manage at last.

“She uses it for fuel, too, remember?”

“And we make medicine out of it. Baskets. Houses. Rafts. So many, many things.”

“That’s right. And that’s why I’m going to stay like the bamboo, Tu Reh. I want to be used for many purposes. Not just one.”

Peh releases his end of the pole, and it lands on the ground with a thud. “I won’t command you, my son. A Karenni man must decide for himself. Leave him for the animals. End his life now. Or carry him to the healer. It’s your choice.”

I feel dizzy. How can Peh leave this to me?

“Don’t decide too quickly, my son,” Peh adds. “Take some time to think.” He picks up his pack and the other three rifles and walks around the bend, leaving me with the soldier, the fourth rifle, and my pole.

I have both weapons in my hands. I can use either one. It’s my choice, he said. But even though I can’t see Peh, it’s like he’s still there. And I know what he wants me to do. I know how he feels about killing someone—he sees it only as a defense, a last resort.

I carry on the argument with him in my head. If I carry this soldier to the healer’s hut, it’s going to take me too long to get back. I’ll never catch up with the team. No!
I want to take this journey with you, Peh. The whole journey.
I’ve pictured our return to camp with stories to tell of Karenni lives we saved. Sa Reh will be so impressed. How can I give that up after only a couple of days, all because of a stupid Burmese soldier? Why couldn’t he have died like the others?

The fire rages in my head.
Leave him here, Tu Reh. He’s Burmese. A soldier. They’re destroying our people, our land, our future.
Leopards or wild dogs will pick up the scent of blood. They’ll tear him to pieces by nightfall.

I turn to go. But the soldier is stirring. He moans. One hand gropes for the pocket on his shirt.

I can’t help glancing at his face. Beads of sweat gleam on his hairless upper lip. He can’t be much older than fourteen or fifteen. Just a kid, really. Could I leave a boy younger than me to be attacked by beasts? It’s a terrible way to die.

The flaming voice in my head answers so loudly I’m surprised Peh doesn’t come running to shut it up.
Then kill him yourself! Use the weapon they were carrying to kill us!

It’s time to act—time to grow up and become a man. A man for the Karenni.

I fling down the bamboo pole and lift the rifle. Placing the stock against my shoulder, I aim the barrel straight at the soldier’s skull.

Do it! Kill him!

But as my fingers tighten around the trigger, the boy’s eyes open. They stare into mine. He says something in a low voice, repeating the same word again and again.

I hear it.

I understand it.

This boy wants his mother.

Mua’s face, lined with worry, comes whirling into my mind. Somewhere, far away in the plains of Burma, another mother is waiting for a son to come home.

I swear.

I lower the rifle.

He’ll die anyway! Kill him!

The voice isn’t done shouting, but I can’t obey it.

Not with those eyes staring at me; not with that voice calling for his mother.

I sling the rifle back on my shoulder and pick up the bamboo pole. “Peh!” I call.

Peh comes hurrying back. He scans the soldier from head to toe. I see the relief in his face. “Still alive,” he says.

“Probably not for long,” I answer. “But I’ll try to take him to the healer.”

Peh doesn’t hold back his proud smile. “That’s good, Tu Reh.”

“What should I do when I get there, Peh? Should I stay and protect the girls and their grandfather? Won’t other soldiers come and try to rescue this one?”

Peh places both hands on my shoulders. I try not to show my surprise, but we both know that fathers only do this once or twice in a son’s lifetime. We stand face-to-face for a long moment. “One decision leads to another, my son. God will show you the way.”

I put down the rifle and tie the canteen and my pole securely to the loops on my trousers. When Peh lifts the boy and places him on my back, I stagger before steadying myself. The boy’s arms dangle limply, and I clutch his clammy wrists. The smell of sweat and blood and maybe something worse attacks my nose.

Peh slings his pack and all four rifles over his shoulders. He leads me into the teak grove to find the trail. At least I won’t have to cut through the jungle now that the other soldiers are dead. He lifts and kicks fallen branches and other debris out of the way until we see a trail veering up to the left. “When you get to a broken tree, look to the west for the hut. Shouldn’t take you more than two hours if you keep moving. I’ll see you back in camp in a few weeks, Tu Reh. And trust me, you’ll be the first man I pick for the next mission.”

Giving me a quick smile, Peh’s gone. I want to shout after him,
What’s next? Tell me what to do, Peh!
But instead I turn and start trudging up the hill. My first task is to get to the healer’s hut. Will we make it before dark?

The Burmese boy is thin, but heavy in his sleep. I lift and place each of my feet slowly on the trail, drawing on every ounce of muscle in my legs. Soon, too soon, I have to rest. I lower the soldier to the ground with a thud. The boy moans in pain, and his eyes open again. He tries to speak, but this time no sound comes from his dry, cracked lips.

I unbuckle my canteen, still full from the spring, and drink deeply. What’s wrong with me? I can’t kill this enemy; I can’t even leave him for the animals.
Gone soft,
Sa Reh will say, if I ever tell him about this crazy turn of events. Maybe the soldier will do me a favor and die on the way. Deserves it, the idiot, for leaving the trail.

I sit for a few minutes more and worry. I’m bringing an enemy to the healer’s hut. How can I be sure they’ll receive him? And even if they do, I can’t leave him there. Other soldiers are sure to come searching for him. The girls and their grandfather will be trapped and captured, perhaps even killed. We’ll have to flee for camp as soon as we can. And
then
what to do with the Burmese boy?

Blast this soldier. Why has he crossed my path?

Those eyes are watching me again. They flicker to my canteen.

Blast him again, he’s thirsty. I sigh, reach over, angle the canteen, and let some water dribble into his open mouth. The boy swallows again and again before sinking back into sleep.

The sun is low in the western sky. Mosquitoes swarm around us, lured by the taste of blood and the scent of sweat. With a grunt, I heave the boy onto my back and trudge forward, step by tired step.

It’s twilight when I finally reach the broken tree. Beyond it to the west is a mound of green vines and leaves. A gust of wind shifts the vines, and I catch sight of a small bamboo hut camouflaged under the greenery.

The soldier is unconscious again, his blood seeping through Peh’s bandages. I leave him by the tree and head for the hut.

A voice rings out. “Stop!” it commands. “There are mines everywhere. Please wait there.”

A girl about my age comes into sight. She’s wearing a black tunic and white sash, like other Karenni girls, but hers don’t have any of the usual red or green tassels sewn on them. She moves quickly across the ground, almost hidden in the shadows, weaving to avoid the hidden killers that must surround the house.

As she gets closer I see a long braid of hair swinging behind her. She might be pretty if she were smiling, but it’s hard to tell with that tough expression on her face.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“I’ve brought a wounded boy. Shattered his leg on a mine.”

“Where is he?”

“Back at the tree.”

“Get him inside, quickly. I’ll show you where to step.”

She’s bossy, but to the point. I like that. It makes it easier to tell the truth. “He’s a soldier. A Burmese.”

The girl’s gaze meets mine. “Bring him,” she orders. “I’ll tell my sister to get ready.”

Inside the hut, lighted wicks float in two cans of kerosene. An older girl is waiting beside a clean sheet spread across a mat made of soft grass. She beckons, and I lower the boy onto the mat.

“Careful,” the younger girl says. “His leg’s bleeding again.”

“That’s why he’s here,” I respond curtly. I’m tired.

An old man sits cross-legged on a mat, about to eat rice. The air smells of turmeric and ginger, and my stomach rumbles loudly.

“Hungry?” the younger girl asks, smiling for the first time. She
is
pretty. “Wash up first.”

Pretty, but bossy.

I shrug; I haven’t eaten since the morning. The girl leads me to a bucket of water on the back stoop. “The river’s that way,” she tells me, tipping her head toward the jungle behind the house. “In case you want to take a bath tomorrow.”

I probably smell. I should wash up, but I’m exhausted. “Where’s the privy?”

“Over there. But hurry. Grandfather’s waiting to eat with you.”

“Can’t he tend the soldier first?” I ask, annoyed. “I dragged him all the way here—”

“My sister’s the healer.”

I’m so surprised I forget to speak quietly. “How can
she
be a healer? She’s too young.”

“She learned while she was with them. One of the Burmese soldiers was a doctor, trained in England, and he taught her.” She bends, squinting into the darkness by the door, and plucks a chili pepper off a bush.

“An
enemy
taught her to heal?”

“Crazy, isn’t it? But that’s not what she says.”

“What does she say?”

“That God can bring beauty and goodness from anything.”

I can’t believe it. “Has she talked about what happened to her?”

She hesitates, and when she speaks, her voice is low and shaky. “No, she hasn’t. Not yet, anyway. I hope—I pray she will someday.” Then she tosses her braid over her shoulder. “Go on, use the toilet.”

I stalk behind the hut and find the small outhouse near a grove of papaya trees. I’m fighting another choking wave of anger. I know what Burmese soldiers do to Karenni girls. We all know.

The girl hands me a sliver of soap when I get back. “I’m Ree Meh, by the way,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Tu Reh.”

“Staying in the camp or the jungle?” She pours water over my hands.

“Camp. They let us in because my father’s a leader in the resistance.” I can’t keep the pride out of my voice.

“I didn’t see you when I visited last winter.”

“Got there three months ago.” Anger makes me barrel the next words at her, even though she’s not to blame. “They burned our village. Soldiers. Like the ones that took your sister. Just like that fool I dragged here.”

“They burned ours years ago,” she says, but her voice stays steady this time. She hands me a clean cloth. “Here, dry your hands. Now let’s see if we can fill that talkative stomach of yours.”

Ree Meh locks and bolts the door behind us with a loud snap and click. The soldier’s eyes fly open. They search the dimness of the hut until they rest on the older girl’s face. Then, to my amazement, the soldier smiles. He murmurs something I can’t hear. The healer keeps working without a word.

I can’t help looking closely at her. Her hair is pinned back, and there’s a scar across one cheek. Is the sight of this soldier bringing back memories? But there’s no trace of disgust as her hands steadily remove the bandages.

The girls’ grandfather smiles, patting the place beside him. He’s so old he can probably remember the days before the British left and Burma took over. There aren’t too many veterans of that war alive; even Peh was born after we were annexed. I’d like to ask him how it was back then, what it felt like to have our own country, but that’s going to have to wait. First we need a plan.

Ree Meh pours me a cup of coconut milk. “I hope my sister can keep him alive,” she says. “He lost a lot of blood.”

“She has to work fast,” I reply. “He was heading this way with four other soldiers. They’re dead, but it won’t be long till more come.”

“Let’s give him a chance first,” the old man says. “Put some of my granddaughter’s good cooking in your stomach while you wait.”

Ree Meh ladles rice and curry made of bamboo shoots on a tin plate. The grandfather is already chewing with gusto.

The food looks good. I start eating.