woman’s reaction is instantaneous. She snaps out a command, turns and begins to run. It’s only after she’s taken several paces that she realises the children have not moved, are frozen in place. She stops, confused, turns, repeats her previous instruction, but the children, whether through fear or curiosity, remain stationary. The woman’s maternal instincts win out over her terror. She takes a step back towards the young ones.
Greg is suddenly aware that he’s holding a rifle. He lays it on the ground, lifts up his hands, palms open, makes no move to approach.
It’s OK, it’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you, he says. Don’t run.
His gesture and the tone of his voice have the desired effect. No one moves. Taking this as a good sign, Greg lowers his hands. Don’t move, he says. I’m coming right back.
He backs off through the hut door and emerges a moment later with a bottle of water, uncaps it, then steps unhurriedly towards the three figures, the bottle held out in offering. At first no one moves. Then, in a lightning movement, the boy reaches out, snatches the bottles and begins gulping down the tepid liquid. The woman, grim and stern, barks a few sharp words and the boy stops, hands the bottle to his sister who takes two gulps then offers it to the woman. She gestures for her to return it to Greg. He shakes his head.
No, go on, you have it, he says.
The daughter holds it out to her mother, says something soft, soothing. The woman, her face still a mask of fierce defiance, takes the water and helps herself to a small sip. She hands it back to her daughter and gives another command, this time in a gentler tone. The daughter hands the half-empty bottle back to Greg.
Late afternoon is giving way to evening. Greg gazes past the figures at the horizon, the darkening skies streaked with the dying sunset orange. Meanwhile, the woman, now more composed, has spoken to her children again and they’ve disappeared.
This is your home, isn’t it? he says. I’m sorry.
She looks at him, gauging his intentions from the softness in his voice, the pity in his eyes. She’s still too traumatised by the events of the past day to wonder much about this white stranger. She still feels wary, but she knows her options are limited and besides, her exhaustion is overwhelming.
They’ve gone to fetch firewood, the children. This is my home. You can stay here tonight if you want. We have no food, I’m sorry.
Greg listens to her voice, tries to read meaning into the unfamiliar words.
I won’t hurt you. It’s late. I need to stay here tonight. I hope that’s OK with you. We can stay together. He has a thought. Perhaps we should get some firewood. He gestures towards the smouldering fire.
The woman looks around her. The initial shock of her encounter is passing and she becomes aware of the full extent of her misfortune. She remembers the events of the attack, the life she had prior to it, what she has lost. She begins to weep.
They came at dawn, she sobs.
Are you hungry? I’ve got some food in my bag.
I’d woken early. Rasheed, the boy, he’d been complaining during the night about a stomach ache, so I got up before dawn to make a medicine.
I’m sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. My name’s Greg. Greg.
I woke Munia, told her to go out and look for the plant we use for stomach problems. I’d seen some growing up by that hill over there. She gestures vaguely. Her weeping has stopped as she relives the events of the morning, but her voice is raw with emotion.
I’ve got a bit of cheese left, some crackers...
I heard the horses coming. I knew what it was at once. We live in fear of them, expect the attacks, but when it happened...
I think there might be another roll somewhere, though it’ll be pretty stale by now. Still, it’s better than a kick in the teeth, eh! He gives a half-hearted chuckle, an attempt at levity.
I didn’t know what to do. I was torn. She begins to cry again.
I’ll go and fetch it,
Greg is suddenly aware that he’s holding a rifle. He lays it on the ground, lifts up his hands, palms open, makes no move to approach.
It’s OK, it’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you, he says. Don’t run.
His gesture and the tone of his voice have the desired effect. No one moves. Taking this as a good sign, Greg lowers his hands. Don’t move, he says. I’m coming right back.
He backs off through the hut door and emerges a moment later with a bottle of water, uncaps it, then steps unhurriedly towards the three figures, the bottle held out in offering. At first no one moves. Then, in a lightning movement, the boy reaches out, snatches the bottles and begins gulping down the tepid liquid. The woman, grim and stern, barks a few sharp words and the boy stops, hands the bottle to his sister who takes two gulps then offers it to the woman. She gestures for her to return it to Greg. He shakes his head.
No, go on, you have it, he says.
The daughter holds it out to her mother, says something soft, soothing. The woman, her face still a mask of fierce defiance, takes the water and helps herself to a small sip. She hands it back to her daughter and gives another command, this time in a gentler tone. The daughter hands the half-empty bottle back to Greg.
Late afternoon is giving way to evening. Greg gazes past the figures at the horizon, the darkening skies streaked with the dying sunset orange. Meanwhile, the woman, now more composed, has spoken to her children again and they’ve disappeared.
This is your home, isn’t it? he says. I’m sorry.
She looks at him, gauging his intentions from the softness in his voice, the pity in his eyes. She’s still too traumatised by the events of the past day to wonder much about this white stranger. She still feels wary, but she knows her options are limited and besides, her exhaustion is overwhelming.
They’ve gone to fetch firewood, the children. This is my home. You can stay here tonight if you want. We have no food, I’m sorry.
Greg listens to her voice, tries to read meaning into the unfamiliar words.
I won’t hurt you. It’s late. I need to stay here tonight. I hope that’s OK with you. We can stay together. He has a thought. Perhaps we should get some firewood. He gestures towards the smouldering fire.
The woman looks around her. The initial shock of her encounter is passing and she becomes aware of the full extent of her misfortune. She remembers the events of the attack, the life she had prior to it, what she has lost. She begins to weep.
They came at dawn, she sobs.
Are you hungry? I’ve got some food in my bag.
I’d woken early. Rasheed, the boy, he’d been complaining during the night about a stomach ache, so I got up before dawn to make a medicine.
I’m sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. My name’s Greg. Greg.
I woke Munia, told her to go out and look for the plant we use for stomach problems. I’d seen some growing up by that hill over there. She gestures vaguely. Her weeping has stopped as she relives the events of the morning, but her voice is raw with emotion.
I’ve got a bit of cheese left, some crackers...
I heard the horses coming. I knew what it was at once. We live in fear of them, expect the attacks, but when it happened...
I think there might be another roll somewhere, though it’ll be pretty stale by now. Still, it’s better than a kick in the teeth, eh! He gives a half-hearted chuckle, an attempt at levity.
I didn’t know what to do. I was torn. She begins to cry again.
I’ll go and fetch it,
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