Of Lions and Unicorns

by Michael Morpurgo

  It was the city they were bombing, not the countryside. We only had to keep going, I told myself. We would soon be out of the park, into the outskirts of the city, closer all the time to the safety of the fields and the woods beyond.

  We tried not to, but we had to stop from time to time, to catch our breath. And whenever we did, we would stand there, gazing back at the city. Our city it was, and it was being destroyed before our eyes. Searchlights crisscrossed the sky. Anti-aircraft guns were firing, firing, pounding away. But the planes just kept on coming, the blast of their bombs ever nearer, ever louder, roaring in our ears. The flames from burning houses and factories were licking high into the sky, leaping from one building to the next, from one street to the next, from one fire to another, each fire, it seemed to me, seeking out another fire to be with, so it could become an inferno, so it could burn more furiously.

  Time and again we turned away from it and ran on, partly because the heat was so intense, and partly because we could bear to watch no longer. We were out of the park by now, out on to the road through the suburbs. A sudden wind was getting up, a strong fierce wind that gusted in our faces as we walked. We leaned into the wind and staggered on through the snow.

  We followed the road to the top of a steep hill, and by then Mutti could carry Karli no further. She had to stop. We found ourselves on our knees in the snow, looking back down at the city, at the ring of fire that now encircled it entirely. Kneeling there, we heard quite distinctly through the drones of the bombers, the sound of shooting. And we could hear screaming. One look at Mutti’s horrified face, and I knew this screaming for what it was, the shrieking of animals, of dying animals, and that it came from the direction of the zoo. They were shooting the animals. Mutti put her hands over Karli’s ears, and hugged him to her. She wept then, uncontrollably, as much in anger as in grief, I thought. Karli and I put our arms around her to do our best to comfort her. There we knelt, the wind searing hot on our faces now, while the shooting went on, and the bombs fell, and the city burned.

  In the end it was neither Karli nor me who brought her comfort. Instead it was the sound of breathing close behind us, and then, miraculously, Marlene’s trunk winding itself around us, enfolding us. That was a moment I remember so well, because all three of us burst out laughing, laughing through our tears. We had gone looking for Marlene, lost her, and now she had found us. We were on our feet at once, overjoyed, Karli kissing her trunk again and again, and Mutti stroking her ear, but telling her how naughty she had been to run away like she had. I looked up into Marlene’s face, and saw the fires of the city burning in her troubled eye. She knew what was happening, understood everything. I was sure of it.

  I think it was Marlene’s sudden unexpected reappearance that gave us all fresh hope, new strength, Mutti most of all. “Well, children,” she said, brushing the snow off her coat, “we have no house to go back to, and certainly there will be very little left of the city. So I have been thinking. There is only one place we can go to. We shall go to the farm, to Uncle Manfred and Aunt Lotti. It is a long, long way to go on foot, but there is nowhere else.”

  “But you and Papi,” I said. “You told us we could never go back to the farm, not after …”

  “I know,” Mutti told him. “But we have no choice, have we? We shall be needing food, shelter. They will look after us, I know they will. It was a family row we had, that is all. I am sure everything is forgiven by now, and that we can all put it behind us. When we get there, they will welcome us in with open arms. It will be fine, I promise you. You will see.”

  A cameraman filming life in the West Bank befriends Said, a silent young shepherd. He learns the terrible past of Said’s family but also sees hope for future generations …

  n the way back home to the village that evening with the sheep we came across Uncle Yasser harvesting his broad beans. I stopped and asked if he’d mind if I filmed him at his work. He shrugged. “There is not much to film,” he told me. “It’s a poor crop, but it’s always a poor crop. There’s never enough water, that’s the trouble. They have taken most of it. And they have taken all our best land for themselves. They leave us only the dust to farm in. So what can you do?” He was watching Said as he walked on up into the village with his sheep. “I see he has sent his kite away. He let it go. The wind must have been just right. He never keeps his kites, not one of them. He just makes another one, waits for the next east wind, then sends it off again. Did you see what he writes on his kites? ‘Salaam.’ This means Peace. And on every one of them he writes both their names, ‘Mahmoud and Said’.” I had not expected him to want to talk so willingly.

  “How many has he sent?” I asked him.

  “We are not sure. And he cannot tell us of course. Maybe about one a week since Mahmoud … and that was nearly two years ago now.”

  I felt I could ask, because I felt he wanted to tell me. “Who is this Mahmoud? What happened?” He gave me a long and hard look. I thought I had gone too far then, intruded too much. I stopped filming, because I thought that was what he wanted.

  “No,” he said gravely. “You must film this. I want the world to hear about Mahmoud and how he lived and how he died. You are Said’s friend. I think he trusts you. I think he would want you to know. Only Said knows what happened. He was there. He saw it with his own eyes.” I was filming him again by the time he went on.

  “Mahmoud was Said’s older brother. He loved to make kites. He loved to fly kites, and always with Said. It happened two years ago next week, next Monday – before the occupiers built the wall. I knew there would be trouble that day, we all did. A settler’s car was ambushed that morning, further down the valley. We heard that a woman was killed, and her daughter was in hospital with bad injuries to her legs, that maybe she would die too. So we said to all the children in the village: this is a dangerous time, you must stay inside, everyone is safer inside if the soldiers come. But Mahmoud, like his father, was a strong-willed boy, and he became angry with me when I said he could not go out with the sheep and fly his kite. He told me the sheep had to go out, that he would fly his kite whenever and wherever he wanted, that they had put his father in prison, that he would not let them make a prisoner of him in his own home, that he would not hide away like a coward. These were the last words Mahmoud spoke to me.

  “And so they went off, the two of them together, with the sheep. Whenever Mahmoud went out, Said would always want to go with him. His mother tried to stop them too. They wouldn’t listen.

  “Maybe an hour later, we heard a helicopter come flying low over the village. There was some shooting. When it was over we all ran outside. We saw Mahmoud lying at the bottom of the hill, beside the road. Said was with him, Mahmoud’s head on his lap. When we got there, his eyes were open, but he was dead. We asked Said how it happened. But he cannot tell us. Since that moment, he has not spoken. God willing, one day he will. God willing.” His voice was breaking. He looked away from me, trying to compose himself. I was doing much the same thing. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him any more questions. But when he turned to me again, I could see he was ready to tell me more.

  “Said sent off his first kite the next day, the day we buried Mahmoud. Do you know why he sends his kites over there? He cannot tell us himself of course, but we think that for Said every kite that lands over there in the settlement is like a seed of friendship. This is why he writes ‘Salaam’ on each one. We think that he hopes and he believes that one day they’ll send the kites back, and everything will be right, that his father will come home from prison, that somehow friendships will grow, all the killing will stop, and peace will come. For Said, his kites are kites of peace. You know what I think? I think, let Said have his dreams. It’s all he has. He’ll find out soon enough what they’re like over there. Many people tell him this. Uncle Gasbag I may be, but I know when a thing must not be spoken. Let him dream, I say, let him dream.”

  “But what about the girl?” I asked him. “The one with the blue headscarf, the on
e in the wheelchair. She picked up Said’s kite. She waved at him. I saw her. She was trying to be friendly. It’s a beginning, surely.”

  He wasn’t having any of it. “I have seen this girl. We all have,” he said. “She’s alive, isn’t she? It is Mahmoud who is dead, is it not? Tell me, what does it cost to wave? They cannot wave away what they did. She is an occupier, isn’t she? They are all occupiers. All occupiers are the same.”

  I spent the evening here in the family house, on my knees on the floor with Said, helping him make his new kite, everyone looking on. He caught my eye from time to time. I think there is so much he wants to tell me that he cannot tell me. I see in his eyes someone who believes completely in his dream, and I know he wants me to believe in it too. I want to, but I’m finding that very hard. I think he can sense my doubt. I hope he can’t.

  I should have phoned home today, and now it’s too late. Anyway, I’m too sad to talk, and it would all be too difficult to explain how things are here over the phone. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to them tomorrow. One thing I’ve decided I have to do. When I film the wall from the other side, that has to be the settlement I go to. I have to go to where Said’s sending his kites. I’m going to try to meet up with that girl in the wheelchair, to talk to those kids playing football. I have to see and hear the whole story, to know it as it’s lived on both sides. Everything’s as silent as the stars up here, and as beautiful as peace. Time to sleep. G’night Jamie. G’night Penny.

  Hey, Mahmoud? Are you there, Mahmoud? Are you listening? I waved to the girl, Mahmoud, and she waved back too. That’s 94 of our kites she’s got now. Mahmoud? Mahmoud? You will stay with me, won’t you? I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want the nightmare again. I want to stay awake and talk to you. Don’t leave me. You know how I hate the dark. I’ve got so much to tell you.

  I flew the kite with Mister Max today. He was hopeless. He was making a real mess of it, and I didn’t want him to crash it. So I took it off him in the end, and showed him how to do it. You should’ve seen me. It went so high. I mean, out of sight … well, almost. You won’t want to hear this, but I’m as good at flying kites as you … well, almost. Anyway I’m a whole lot better at it than Mister Max, that’s for sure. He’s all right on the spool. I just have to nod and he lets out a little bit more. He’s a bit slow. The last time I flew a kite with anyone else, it was with you, Mahmoud. It was that day, Mahmoud. Remember? Oh, Mahmoud, I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to, but I can’t stop myself. It’s my nightmare again, like a black hole waiting for me and I’m falling. I’m falling into it, Mahmoud! Mahmoud! Help me!

  I’m flying the kite, and I’m loving it. You’re on the spool, and you’re going on and on about how Uncle Gasbag tried to keep us indoors, about how this was our hillside, and how no one could stop us flying our kites, not Uncle Yasser, not the soldiers, not the tanks, not anyone. I’m only half listening to you, because I’m trying to concentrate on the kite. I’m doing well too, diving it as fast as you, so fast I can hear the rush and the roar of it in the wind as it whizzes by over our heads. And I’m laughing, laughing to see it up there, looping and swooping. I’m still laughing when the roaring of the kite becomes a thunder and a throbbing in my ears. I’m so frightened because the ground underneath me is shaking, and I can’t understand why, until I see the helicopter coming up over the hilltop behind us, and close, so close, almost touching the top of the kite tree. The sheep are going crazy, Mahmoud.

  You’re angry, Mahmoud. You’re yelling at the helicopter, picking up a stone and throwing it, then another stone and another. The helicopter’s right over us, and we’re being blown away by it, and I’m losing all control of the kite. It’s spiralling crazily away down towards the road and it’s crashing into the rocks. You’re yelling at me to stay where I am, and then I see you racing down the hill after it. I’ve got my hands over my ears and I’m crying because I know already that something terrible is going to happen. I see the tank coming round the bend in the road before you do, and I’m screaming at you, Mahmoud, trying to warn you, but you can’t hear me.

  You’re crouching over the kite now, and then you look up and see the tank. I know what you’re going to do, and I know that there’s nothing I can do to stop you. You’re too angry. “Mahmoud! Mahmoud! Don’t do it!” But you do it. You run at the tank, shouting and screaming at it, hurling stones at it. When they open fire you still don’t stop. You only stop when you fall, and when you fall you’re lying still, so still.

  The soldiers tell me it’s a mistake. They were firing warning shots, they say. They are sorry, they say. One of the soldiers is crying, but I’m not going to cry any more, not in front of them. There’s blood. There’s so much blood. You are trying to tell me something. Mend the kite, Said. Can you hear me? Mend the kite.

  Yes, I can hear you. I’ll mend the kite. Then I’ll make another and another. I promise. I promise.

  I’m still promising when the light goes out of your eyes, Mahmoud. You’re looking at me and you’re not seeing me.

  London is under siege during the bombing raids of the Blitz. The morning that David has dreaded arrives, as he and his friend Tucky become wartime evacuees, leaving their homes and everything they know behind …

  is mother woke him as usual that morning, shaking his shoulder and then kissing him gently as he rolled over. It was pitch black around him, but then he was used to that by now. For months they had slept down in the cellar on the bunks his father had made the last time he was home on leave.

  “Here’s your apple, dear,” his mother said. “Sit up and have your apple now.” And she patted the pillow behind him as he pushed himself up on to his elbows. He felt the saucer come into his hand. His early morning apple was the only thing that had not changed since the war started. Every morning as far back as he could remember his mother had woken him this way – with an apple peeled, cored and quartered lying opened up on a white saucer.

  He felt his mother shifting off the bed and watched for the flare of yellow light as she struck the match for the oil lamp. The cellar walls flickered and then settled in the new light, and the boy saw his mother was dressed to go out. She had her coat on and her hat with the brown feather at the back. It was only then that he remembered. His stomach turned over inside him and tears choked at his throat. The morning he had thought would never come, had come. Every night since he’d first heard about it, he prayed it might not happen to him; and the night before, he had prayed he would die in his sleep rather than wake up and have to go.

  “You were restless again last night, dear. Did you sleep?” He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Come on now. Eat your apple and get dressed. Quick as you can, dear. It’s six o’clock by the station, they said. It’s a quarter-to now. I left you as long as I could.”

  Fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes and he’d be gone. Thirty minutes and she would be back in this house without him. She was bending over him, shaking his shoulder. “Please, dear. We must hurry. Eat it down, quickly now. Miss Roberts said you’d be having a roll and jam on the train, but you must have something before you go.”

  “Don’t want it, Mum.” He handed the saucer back to her. Only moments before he had been savouring that first bite of his apple. They were always crisp, always juicy, like nothing else. But now he felt sick at the sight of it.

  “You must, David. You always have your apple. You know you do.”

  He had upset her and ate it to make her happy, swallowing it like medicine, trying not to taste it. Each bite reminded him that this was the last apple.

  Once out of bed he dressed to keep the cold out. His mother was packing his suitcase and he watched everything going in and wondered where he’d be when he took it all out again.

  “They said only one case, so there’s only room for one change of clothes. All the things you wanted, they’re at the bottom. I’ll send on the rest as soon as I know where you’ll be.” She smoothed down his coat collar and brushed through his hair with her finge
rs. “You’ll do,” she said, smiling softly.

  “Do I have to, Mum? Do I have to go?” Even as he asked he knew it was useless. Everyone was going from school – no one was staying behind. He was ashamed of himself now. He’d promised himself he’d be brave when he said goodbye. He clung to his mother, pressing his face into her coat, fighting his tears.

  She crouched down in front of him, holding him by the shoulders. “You remember what I said, David, when I told you your father had been killed? Do you?” David nodded. “I said you’d have to be the man in the house, remember?” He took the handkerchief she was offering. “You never saw your father crying, did you?”

  “No, Mum.”

  “Men don’t cry, see? Try to be a man, David, like your father was, eh?” She chucked him under the chin, and straightened his cap on to the front of his head. “Come on now. We’ll be late.”

  It was still dark up in the street, and a fine drizzle sprayed their faces as they walked away from the house. David looked back over his shoulder as they came to the postbox at the corner and caught a last glimpse of the front steps. He felt his mother’s hand on his elbow, and then they were round the corner.

  Ahead of them there was a glow of fire in the sky. “South of the river,” his mother said. “Battersea, I should say. Poor devils. At least you’ll be away from all that, David, away from the bombs, away from the war. At least they won’t get you as well.” He was surprised by the grim tone in her voice.

  “Where will you go, Mum?”

  “Wherever they send me. Probably to the coast – Kent or somewhere like that. Somewhere where there’s anti-aircraft guns, that’s all I know. Don’t worry, I’ll write.”