Arrows, Bones and Stones

by Donna White

  “Left Uganda?”

  “Yes. I think he has let the devil take the throne and he has forgotten us.”

  “But what about my angel?”

  “I do not know about your angel. All I know is sometime I am on this side of the line where I am happy and I know that good will win over the evil, but other time I am on the other side and I cannot see the end in sight.” Fire sighed and stood, stretching her back. She looked into the trees and the deep blue of the sky. “But you know this, Charlie?”

  “What is that?”

  “It is a thin thin line.”

  Charlie watched the embers from the fire slowly turn from red to black. He sighed.

  Fire put the dishes into the bag and went into the hut. “We must go soon soon,” she said as she brought the water jug out and felt its lightness. “We need more water. While I go to see Maisha, you go and fill the jug. The well is down that way.” She pointed to the path that had brought them to the hut from the school. “Head down it for a bit just, until you see the termite mound that stand above your head. Then turn left. The path will take you to the well.”

  Charlie grabbed the jug. “I will be back soon.”

  “And I will meet you here. We will leave then.” She placed the sack into the hut. Before she stepped out the door, she ran her hand over the black bag tucked safely inside.

  ****

  Charlie hurried down the pathway and turned at the termite hill. A small space between a pair of trees marked the beginnings of a trail. He followed the traces of a path made long ago until he stood in front of a broad cement circle in the middle of some tall grass.

  He positioned the jug under the spout and lifted the long arm of the pump. He swung it down, then raised it again and again until a trickle of water flowed. Another pump of the arm and the water gushed out, filling the yellow container in seconds. He moved the jug to the side and stuck his head under the tap. The water soaked his hair, back, and legs until goose bumps covered his skin. He sat under the tap and splashed the water up onto his head, rubbing his hands over his hair, face, and arms. He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. The coolness of the water and the heat from the sun sent a shiver through his body that passed from his head to his toes and back up again.

  Then he began to sing. A song from long past. A child’s song about a hippo and a crocodile and a battle to see who ruled the Nile. “He thrashed his tail, he chomped his teeth, to show he was the king of beast!”

  He pushed the lever down, and the last drops of water fell to the cement and flowed to the outlying grass. He stretched his arms out and threw back his head. The sun’s rays dried the droplets from his body, chasing the goose bumps away. He smiled. He screwed the top on the jug, hoisted it onto his head, and held it in place with both hands as he walked back to the hut.

  “I filled the jug,” he called out as he placed it in the hut. He looked around the yard and peered into the other hut. Fire was not there. He sat by the fire pit and watched the last of the coals give off their heat and turn to gray ash. The white-browed robin-chat sent his call into the dusk: ko kweer, ko kweer, ko kweer ki, ko kweer ki, filling the evening air with its loud, raucous song, while the sun began to hide behind the trees. Charlie stood and walked toward the path Fire had taken before to get to Salume’s hut. He paused and faced the hut, then turned toward the path again.

  “Where is she?” he muttered.

  He followed the path for several minutes until he heard the sound of children’s laughter. He entered the clearing and looked around. Salume was busy at her water basin, washing the dishes. Fire was not to be seen.

  Charlie called out. “Itye nining, Salume! I am looking for Fire. Do you know where she is?”

  “Eeh?” Salume stood up and wiped her hands on her dress. “She left long ago.”

  “Where?”

  Salume pointed at the path behind him. “There, the same path you came by just. She should be at her hut by now. Did you not see her there?”

  Charlie stared at Salume, turned, and ran down the path as fast as he could.

  Part II

  Chapter 14

  The wise create proverbs for fools to learn,

  not to repeat. ~ African proverb

  Sam grabbed the lever of the Juicy Fruity machine and jerked it up, cursing under her breath. A thick pile of bright yellow froth slid down her forehead and landed on the counter with a splat. She gritted her teeth as she pushed a lid on the top of the plastic cup and rammed a straw through the hole in the center. She forced a smile as she passed the cup across the counter to a young girl.

  “Here. One tasty lemon Juicy Fruity. Enjoy.” She tried to say it pleasantly, just as her boss had instructed her, but failed miserably.

  The girl took the cup and stared at Sam. The goo oozed down Sam’s forehead and slid slowly down her nose.

  “Next,” Sam called. She wiped her nose and sent the goo splattering onto the floor.

  Two boys approached the counter.

  “Hey, Sam. When did ya start working here?” The boy leaned over the counter and started playing with the straw dispenser.

  “Obviously not too long ago,” the other boy replied, looking at the stain on Sam’s head. “But I kind of like the neon-yellow highlights. What about you, Brendan?”

  “Yeah, but I think it needs a bit more. Say, something in pink, perhaps. I’ll have a cherry Juicy Fruity,” Brendan said, smirking.

  “And I’ll have the super neon kiwi, double flavor burst,” the second boy added.

  “I think the pink and green will look pretty cool with the yellow. What do you think, Dylan?”

  Imitating the long, drawn-out nasal voice of a fashion designer, Dylan replied, “Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

  Sam drew in her breath and glared. She turned her back to the boys and filled each cup with the bright fruity syrups, then threw a huge scoop of ice into each. After she placed the cup under the beater, she turned the machine on, then carefully lifted and lowered the cup, watching the syrup blend with the ice until it became a neon pink. She held the cup in one hand while she reached across and hit the off switch with the other. The machine came to an immediate stop. Carefully, she began to pull the cup away and reached for a lid.

  The machine gave a quick jerk and sent the still rotating beater into the juice. Gobs of neon-pink foam flew into the air and landed with perfectly aimed precision on Sam’s head. With great restraint, she wiped the goop away before it had time to slide down her nose again.

  As she placed the cup on the counter, she glimpsed her boss. The woman was shaking her head and looking none too pleased. Sam forced another smile. “Two dollars and fifteen cents, please.” Her voice oozed with syrup while her eyes shot daggers at Brendan.

  Sam took another deep breath and repeated the steps: place cup under beater, turn beater on, lift and lower cup, turn off switch, remove cup from holder.

  “Shit!” she yelled as the beater fell into the cup and the neon-green ice flew in all directions. She stepped back as the ice landed on the counter, the walls, and the ceiling. A massive gob that had hit the ceiling lost its battle with gravity and landed on the front of her shirt and slid down, leaving a long streak of green from top to bottom.

  Sam forced smile number three and passed the cup across the counter to Dylan.

  “I don’t know if it’s what I was looking for, Dylan, but I think it’ll work,” Brendan said.

  “Yes, yes,” Dylan replied, using his nasal fashion designer voice again. “Sporting the Juicy Fruity ice freeze look, this model is proving that yes, food can accessorize the latest look.”

  Sam stepped out from behind the counter and stood in front of him as he reached for the door.

  “Just a sec,” she said, reaching for the cup. “I didn’t give you enough.” She yanked the lid off and grabbed the front of his jeans. With one single jerk, she dumped the juice down his pants, dropped the cup on the floor, and walked out the door.

  “Now, that’s
plenty,” she said, slamming the door behind her.

  She pulled her bike from the rack and took off. “Stupid assholes. Stupid friggin’ assholes,” she muttered under her breath.

  She sped down the street until she was forced to slow at a red light. She glanced to her left and turned at the corner. A car flew past her, the driver honking the horn and yelling. Sam’s bike jerked and twisted into the curb. She jumped onto the boulevard and pulled her bike off the road. She stared at the flat front tire.

  “Stupid piece of junk! I fixed you last week!” She kicked the tire and her foot caught in the spokes. She yanked it free, bending several spokes out of place at the same time. A passing vehicle slowed as a woman looked out the passenger window.

  “I’m okay! I’m okay!” Sam yelled as she lifted her bike to her shoulder and walked down the sidewalk. “Just made a stupid fool of myself, lost my job, and I look like a friggin’ freak from a circus sideshow, but other than that I’m perfectly fine. I mean, what else could possibly go wrong?”

  Sam repositioned the bike on her shoulder as a huge raindrop landed on her head. She felt another one and then another, until the sky burst open and the entire contents of one cloud poured on her, her hair, her bright orange uniform, and all of the neon pink and yellow and green syrups she wore as accessories.

  “Yep. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse . . .” Sam shook her fist at the cloud. She walked on.

  When she reached the front steps of the Museum London, Sam locked her bike to a rack and walked up the front steps. A Canadian flag flapped in the wind. An elderly man, huddled under a small overhang, put his hat out toward Sam. His worn jacket, pants, and shoes had seen better days. He flashed a quick smile, his white teeth contrasting with his black skin. Sam looked at him from the corner of her eye, stepped to the side, and pushed the heavy wooden doors open. She leaned over the counter at the reception desk. A middle-aged woman sat in an overstuffed office chair, focusing on a computer screen while her fingers flew across the keyboard.

  “Crazy Bill’s out there, again.”

  “Uh-huh.” The woman looked briefly at a paper on the table and continued typing.

  “Then send someone out there to get rid of him. He scares people.”

  “No he doesn’t. Just leave him alone. He’s harmless.” The woman paused to look up at Sam. “Well, aren’t you a lovely sight today. You going for the Goth look, mixed with a little neon disco?”

  Sam gave her a dirty look. “Where’s my dad?”

  “He’s finishing up with a kids’ group right now. If you wait he should be here soon.”

  “No,” Sam said, turning on her heel. “I just want to know where he is so I can avoid him. Don’t tell him I’m here.” She ducked into the door marked Employees Only, walked down the hallway, and turned into the staff room.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and added five sugar cubes, then stirred in a couple of spoonfuls of coffee whitener.

  “Hey, Sam, I thought you were working today.” A boy dressed in khaki pants and a green shirt sporting the museum’s logo walked into the room and threw his lunch bag on the table.

  “Nope. Quit.”

  “Oh. Your dad’s gonna be likin’ that. What is this now? Job number ten?”

  “No. Job number three, asshole. And mind your own business, Jake.”

  Jake sat down and took a sandwich from his bag. “So, what happened this time?” he said, taking a huge bite out of his sandwich. “Do tell me. No, let me guess. You suggested that a customer go to the tent store to purchase a dress in her size. No, that can’t be it. You did that at Pier 21 a few weeks ago. Or maybe you told an old lady to—”

  “Shut up, Jake.”

  “No, I don’t think it was exactly those words. Wasn’t it something more like, ‘Stick your Big Mac where the sun don’t shine’?”

  “I said shut up. And don’t you dare tell my dad anything.” Sam slammed her cup of coffee on the table and stormed out the door.

  She stopped and stood in the hallway. She drew in a deep breath. One . . . two . . . three . . . She let the air out and inhaled again. One . . . two . . . three . . .

  “Oh, screw it,” she blurted out. “What do psychiatrists know, anyway?”

  She walked to the end of the hallway and pushed her way through a set of metal doors marked Storage. The spacious room was filled with shelves, crates, and boxes of various sizes. A pile of canvases, rugs, and other packing material lay in the corner.

  She pulled out her cell phone and set her alarm to 5:15. “That should work,” she mumbled, lying on the rugs and pulling a canvas over her head. “Sweet dreams, Sam.” She closed her eyes, but it was only for a few seconds. The metal doors slammed shut, followed by the sound of footfalls on the cement floor. She was wide-awake. The footfalls drew nearer and nearer.

  Sam lay perfectly still, holding her breath.

  The canvas was pulled off her and thrown to the ground.

  “I’ve had it, Sam. I’ve lost it. I can’t take it anymore.”

  Sam sat up. Her dad glared.

  “Aren’t you gonna ask me what happened, at least?”

  “Why should I? It’s always the same thing. You don’t try. You don’t think. You lose your temper.” He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “No. Well, yeah. But I did try. The stupid juice machine kept on screwing up. And these two boys came in and—”

  “And you took the liberty of emptying the entire contents of a Juicy Fruity cup down someone’s jeans. I know. Sheila called me. You know, the only reason she hired you was because we’re friends and I asked her to do me a favor. She had enough staff already. She was not impressed, Sam.”

  “Yeah, but you should have heard what they were saying to me. That I looked—”

  “I don’t care what they said. You shouldn’t have done it. You know that. End of story.” He shook his head. “You know, it’s like you just don’t care anymore.”

  “I don’t.”

  Sam’s dad sat on the pile of canvas and studied her face. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. It’s hard right now. It’s hard for both of us. But you have to get rid of this anger, Sam. It’s not good. You have so much going for you.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Not this talk again, Dad. Spare me.”

  “No, because you do. You’re smart. You have a way of figuring things out that I’ve never seen in anyone else. Like your bike. The other day you had a flat, and when we didn’t have any more of that rubber glue or a patch, you went and got that rubber molding from Mom’s craft room and heated it up and used it with a piece of window screen. And it worked. You rode your bike to work today, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but the stupid thing didn’t last. I had to carry it here ’cause the glue didn’t hold.”

  “Oh,” Sam’s dad said, biting his lip. “But that doesn’t matter. The point is, you gave it some thought, you tried it—and it worked—for a while, anyway.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Yeah, it is a big deal.”

  They sat in silence.

  “Listen. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day. Remember that exhibit I was telling you about? The one that’s been traveling around Canada? The one from Egypt? Well, it’s coming tomorrow, and we could use some help unloading it. We could have supper and then come back in the evening when the truck arrives. What do you say?”

  Sam got up and walked toward the doors. “Yeah, whatever.”

  Her dad followed and pushed the door open, holding it while she walked into the hall.

  “Oh, by the way. One of the custodians called in sick today. How about you help Jake wash the floors on the main level? After all that rain, lots of mud’s been tracked in. And you know how much Jake would appreciate it.”

  Sam stopped and drew in another deep breath. One . . . two . . . three . . .

  Chapter 15

  You do not teach the paths of the forest to

  an old gorilla. ~
Congolese proverb

  Sam sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed her hand over her face. She looked out her window and blinked as the late morning sun glared into her bedroom. “Morning to you too, Mr. Golden Sun,” she said as she snapped the window curtains shut.

  She walked to her dresser and turned on her clock radio and set the volume to max. The tinny sound of bass and drums filled the room, pushing the stillness and quiet out the door.

  Wrapping her housecoat around her small frame, she walked into the bathroom and stared at her reflection. She ran her fingers through her hair—jet black, brown roots. “You’d think by now you’d have lost the freckles, Sam,” she said and stuck her tongue out.

  She stepped into the shower and stood in a daze as the water fell. Leaning her head against the shower wall, she covered the drain with her foot. The water rose above her feet and ankles until she moved her foot and the water drained away. Finally, she washed her hair, rinsed, and shut the water off.

  Standing in her bedroom doorway, she sighed. A wooden trunk lay at the end of her bed. She opened the lid and ran her fingers over the cover of a well-worn children’s book that lay on top. “Sammy the Super Snail,” she whispered as she held the book to her chest. Tears rolled down her cheeks, dropping onto her housecoat.

  “Yeah, right.” She tossed the book back in the trunk, slammed the lid shut, and brushed the tears from her face. “How many times did you say, ‘There’s always tomorrow,’ Mom? Too bad you didn’t listen to your own words.” Her words were hateful, stinging. “Such a hypocrite. Such a friggin’ hypocrite.”

  She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a bowl of cereal, and sat in front of the TV. “Come on, Shaggy and Scooby-Doo. Make my day,” she said as she turned it on and shoved a spoonful of Froot Loops into her mouth. She laughed as Shaggy and Scooby-Doo scrambled over each other, trying to run from a ghost sporting a long white gown and an eerie smile.