The Kicking Tree

by Trevor Stubbs

  “Our eldest,” explained the man. “These here are foreigners that are just ‘passing through’. Sorry don’t know their names,” he explained to her.

  “Jallaxanya – Jalli for short.”

  “And I’m Jack.”

  “Told you they were foreigners. Strange names you have for our ears. This ‘ere is Tillithy.”

  “Hi,” said Tillithy, “I get Tilly most of the time.”

  “Family name’s Somaf,” added the crofter.

  “And these are our youngest,” said the wife as three younger ones arrived. A girl of about ten called Bonny, and two boys with names sounding like Mod and Gan. They showed a lot of interest, the youngest touching and stroking Jalli’s long hair.

  “They’ve not seen hair that dark in colour before,” said their father. “Come on now you two, give her a little peace.”

  Jack and Jalli tried to tell the family a bit about themselves. About how they were both only children and how they had met. And about the white gates. “Well I wouldn’t have believed it,” said the woman. “But that you are here and could hardly have got here any ways else that I know of.”

  “We think that the Owner has something for us to do and we want to do the right thing. But we don’t know what it is until, well until just before we’re doing it.”

  “So, do you think your Owner wants you to stay here?”

  “We don’t know where else we might go,” replied Jalli, “it… well it sounds rather dangerous to go in any direction. We had better not travel in the dark.”

  “If I might say,” ventured Mrs. Somaf, “a good looking girl like you should not be out and about on the roads at all. And a young man such as you,” she said to Jack, “cannot say you don’t know what side you’re on. If you’re not with them, then you’re against them, and that means being shot.” The prospects of moving anywhere seemed disastrous. Maybe this time Mum’s caution might have made sense after all.

  “I could say I’m a journalist from an international agency,” declared Jack bringing out a note book and pencil from the front pocket of his backpack.

  “May work,” declared the crofter, “but journalists don’t usually have girlfriends in tow! In any case you’d be safest here keeping your heads down. If the weather’s right, and they leave us be, we could start the planting tomorrow – and since you’re eating here you might as well do some work.” Despite having stuffed themselves full of picnic earlier in the day the mention of food sounded welcome to Jack.

  “But we can’t eat your food when you’ve barely enough for yourselves,” protested Jalli.

  “Can’t see that you’ve got much choice – unless you can live on fresh air!” surmised Mrs. Somaf.

  This was the second time the question of choice had arisen – and Jack noted that, in both cases, it was in the expression “no choice”. He looked at Jalli, and they both silently reflected on the discussion they had had earlier in the day. Yet the truth was that they still did have a choice. They could leave right now and go back to the white gate not very far away, and leave this war-torn land – or they could stay. These people hadn’t the same privilege. They were stuck here inbetween warring parties. Even if they took to the road as refugees they couldn’t have got far with two young children. Things would have to be very bad for that to happen. No words were spoken but they knew they had made the decision.

  “Thank you,” said Jalli. “Your cooking does sound good. We have got some food. It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it,” and she unwrapped the remains of the picnic that she and Jack had brought with them.

  The effect was dramatic! The family had not seen anything like the cold treats that Matilda and Momori had packed up for their children. Jack and Jalli carefully shared all they had and it was a delight to see their faces as they tasted the strange delicacies.

  “Well, your Owner has sent you to us to give us the treat of our lives!” declared the woman. “How does your grandmother make this pie?”

  “You need to be near the sea and collect a special kind of seaweed for a start. And then the meat has got parmanda honey in it. Jack’s country hasn’t got any parmandas so his mother can’t make it. It really is a rare treat though. And my grandma knows that Jack likes her pies so much she couldn’t resist making one specially for him.”

  “But your food is special to us too,” broke in Jack, “because it is just as different.”

  “There’s nothing special about what we grow in our gardens, or what our cattle give us,” commented the wife.

  “But it’s very special to us,” said Jalli. “It’s special being here altogether, and, if we’re not going to be in the way, we’d be delighted to stay…”

  “… and work,” added Jack.

  “Let’s pray that the weather will hold and the soldiers keep away then,” said Mr. Somaf.

  Jalli and Jack spent the night on two beds covered with furs laid on top of what seemed like a kind of bracken. They slept in the end of the croft that the two oldest boys had once used before being taken away. It was divided from the rest with a curtain. Tilly and the children all slept at the other end whilst the crofter and his wife stayed in the main room by the front door. There was a back door that led out of the same room that they used to go to the small shed in which the “earth closet” was situated. Jack had not seen one like this before but he knew they were common in other parts of his planet. “In Australia,” he had explained to Jalli, when they were settling down to sleep, “they call them dunnies I think. In the army they call them latrines. In fact we have more names for the toilet than any other place, I reckon. Mum likes to call it ‘the loo’ because she thinks it’s more middle class. In the United States I’m told they call it ‘the john’ and that’s the same name that Jack comes from…”

  After a moment, Jalli inquired, “Why do they call it that? Why call it a ‘john’?” But she got no answer. Jack had drifted off to sleep as if he had been sleeping on furs and bracken all his life. Great, thought Jalli, I hope I don’t need to go to the “what-do-you-call-it” in the night. It’s so dark outside, and I didn’t ask if there was a candle. But she needn’t have worried because she, too, was soon soundly asleep and did not open her eyes till it was getting light.

  11

  Jalli woke just as it was getting light to the sound of vehicles and men’s voices. It sounded like several large trucks were manoeuvring around the fork where they had met Mr. Somaf, but something was up because men were barking instructions to each other.

  She got up to glance out of the window.

  “Keep your head down! Don’t be seen,” ordered Mrs. Somaf. “It’s the rebel army. I hope they go right by, at least the fighting won’t be on our doorstep.”

  “From what’s being said it sounds like one of their trucks has broken down and they’re trying to get by it,” said the crofter. “Just go back to bed dear until they’ve gone. It looks like a big drive.” Jalli obediently returned to her bed. Jack took her hand as she passed.

  She had just sat on the edge of the bed when there was a huge flash. The morning light increased in intensity several times. A fraction of a second later there was a deafening crunch. They both heard the explosion, and then felt it. The whole croft rocked. A bottle fell off the shelf and smashed on the floor. The crashing lasted several seconds, and then for one uncanny moment there was silence. Jalli wondered if her ears had stopped working. But then the dogs started barking, the birds were up all screeching their own calls and one of the boys in the croft started crying. The soldiers’ voices were now raised with some panicking while others were beseeching order and calm.

  “They must’ve hit a mine,” declared Mr. Somaf. “I didn’t hear a shell coming in. Girls! You’d better go to the bunker. They’ll come down here for certain. Jalli you should go with them. Put all your things – everything that you’re not wearing – in your pack and push it well under the bed. Quickly. Girls, you do the same – you know the drill.”

  “Yes Dad,” replied Tilly
, almost already completing the task. “Bonny, come on!” She grabbed a bottle of water and a blanket from the corner, which lay in readiness for such an exercise. Within two minutes Tilly, Bonny and Jalli were being ushered out the back door by Mrs. Somaf. “The bunker’s through the toilet,” explained Tilly to Jalli who was quite confused. “Follow me!”

  Meanwhile Jack had got up and put on his things. “Why do the girls have to leave?” he asked.

  “Soldiers in wartime take liberties,” explained Mrs. Somaf. “They not only steal food and make your sons become fighters, they can also take your daughters to satisfy their carnal appetites. We have built a bolt-hole out the back of the toilet for the girls to hide in if any soldiers come round. That is why we have a back door. Crofts like this don’t usually have back doors.”

  Tilly led Jalli into the toilet. It was just a hole in the floor with a wooden cover. She stepped over the hole and, bending down, removed a panel from the bottom half of the back of the shed. Behind it was an opening about a metre wide into the bank that passed along the rear of the toilet shed. The entrance opened into a small room lined with wood. Tilly ushered Bonny inside, then Jalli, and finally squeezed herself in, pulling the panel back into place behind her. The bunker was no more than three metres deep, one and a half metres wide and a metre and a bit high. Not even Bonny could stand up in it. In the roof was a pipe through which faint dappled light shone onto Jalli’s legs as she sat hunched between the girls.

  “How often do you have to do this?” asked Jalli.

  “This is the third time,” replied Tilly. “Now we have to remain very, very quiet because our voices will travel easily up the air-vent and be amplified.”

  They listened to what was going on. The noise of men’s voices was definitely coming their way. The parents had been right. The soldiers were in trouble and were looking for some place to get themselves sorted out. They heard a loud banging on the front door of the croft and a gruff voice demanding a bed for an injured comrade.

  Inside the croft the rest of the family had quickly put away anything tempting to steal. Jack was stuffing the seed corms under his bed when the officer banged on the door. He stepped away from the bed to the centre of the room as the crofter swung open the door and three men staggered in with a bleeding soldier. “Over there!” barked the officer and the soldier was lowered fairly roughly, thought Jack, onto the bed Jalli had been using. It was pretty obvious the man was in a bad way. He was bleeding heavily. One leg was clearly broken and blood was pouring from the man’s upper arm.

  Before he was sixteen Jack had intended leaving school as soon as he could. One of the things he contemplated doing was going into the fire service or becoming a paramedic, and he had taken a first aid course to improve his chances. For some reason, that he could not quite explain, instinct took over and he shouted, “You’ve got to stop that bleeding and quickly. Somebody give me a long sock!” Whether it was the tone of voice or some other reason, the officer backed him up yelling to the rest of them, “You heard the boy. A sock!” The crofter’s wife was there with one of her husband’s socks before the others had quite taken in what was happening. Jack was examining the arm and the leg.

  “Both socks, and a towel!” he ordered, as he began tying the first around the man’s thigh above the break. He suspected that there was little hope of repairing the leg that was smashed in several places. He tightened the tourniquet and the blood stopped gushing.

  The arm was more difficult. It would have to be direct pressure decided Jack and he folded the towel into a large pad and bound it to the wound. Then he began to examine the rest of the man’s body. He was quite unconscious. His side was also damaged, and then Jack spotted the blood on the man’s head. Jack said in a calm voice, “I think he’s bleeding inside as well, and his skull is probably broken. The only chance this man has is to get him to a hospital straight away.”

  “The only hospital is three hours that way and the government troops are fleeing up that road right now,” returned the officer. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No,” said Jack, “I’m a writer. I’m doing a piece for the magazine I work for on what it’s like living in a war-zone.”

  “Where did you say you were from?”

  “I didn’t,” said Jack. “It’s a country a long way from here. I live in a town called Persham.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “No. Very few of my people from there have ever been here. That’s why I have come.”

  “Don’t you have wars in your own country?” asked the officer.

  “None recently,” replied Jack. “There was a big war that finished more than sixty years ago, but it was before I was born. The only civil war we’ve had was more than three and a half centuries ago.”

  “So you have come here to find out what it’s like?”

  “A bit like that,” said Jack.

  “So, where did you learn how to treat patients?”

  “A first-aid course. I wanted to be an ambulance man once – before I became a writer.”

  Jack checked the injured soldier’s pulse. It was very weak, and Jack didn’t like the look of his eyes. He was deeply unconscious. Jack asked what had happened.

  “A bloody mine,” stated the officer. “Didn’t you hear it? He was trying to get his truck round our lead truck that broke down in the middle of the road.”

  “Anyone else hurt?” inquired the crofter.

  “Three dead! Too many pieces… So you’ll have plenty to write about today. How do I know you’re not a spy?”

  “I’m afraid it’s four dead now,” sighed Jack. “He lost too much blood.” He stood back and allowed the officer and the other soldiers to examine the body. “Sorry I couldn’t save him.”

  “Well you did what you could. Which was more than this riff-raff (indicating the men in rebel uniform). When we leave here you’re coming with us.”

  “But, I… I have a story to write.”

  “You’ll get a much better story if you ride with us. We can do with your medical knowledge, and there are two ways of dealing with spies, take them with you so they can’t report, or shoot them.”

  “But I’m not a spy,” protested Jack.

  “Perhaps not. That’s why you’re not being shot.”

  Mrs. Somaf spoke up, “This young man is our guest!” She could not just let him be taken, like her sons were. Hadn’t the officer got a heart?

  “I’ve got a heart,” he replied. “That’s why I’m going to look after this boy.” He turned to the other soldiers, “OK, get this body out of here. We’ll bury him. ‘Grandpa’ you tell them where. I don’t want any more mines going off.

  “Who else have you got here?” he demanded of the crofter’s wife. “These your only children? You’re old enough to have bigger ones.”

  “I have. Two sons that have enlisted in your army,” she complained.

  “Enlisted have they? Volunteers?”

  “No,” she bit her lip. “They’re only fifteen and thirteen.”

  “Huh. If you want my view,” said the officer candidly, “for what it’s worth. I don’t hold with that. They don’t make good soldiers. Can kill themselves with their own weapons, and spend too much time crying to go home. What are their names?”

  “Hak and Vic Somaf.”

  “I’ll look out for them.”

  “Thank you,” said the woman with genuine gratitude.

  “OK, don’t get sentimental. Doesn’t do in war. Where does this door lead?” The officer unlatched the back door. “Ah, the khazi,” he said as he spotted the toilet shed, “I could do with a decent crap. You,” he turned to Jack, “what’s your name?”

  “Jack Smith.”

  “Get outside and help with the burying, Jack Smiss. And write down the names of the dead for me. Then take note of what happened in your book.” With that he left through the back door. Jack looked at Mrs. Somaf with some panic.

  “Just do as he says,” she urged. “It’s your only chance. The girls
will be safe, they’ll be sensible,” she whispered. Jack went out the front door and saw a large truck on its side in the ditch. The bodies had been lined up on the road. Some of them not complete. Jack felt sick. Mr. Somaf was directing operations on the other side of the road from the cottage.

  In truth he could not be certain there were no mines there, but he was not going to let them dig beside his house in his vegetable plot, or near the girls.

  Meanwhile Bonny, Jalli and Tilly held their breath as the officer tugged open the door to the toilet. “Bloody dark in here,” he mused as he positioned himself over the hole not more than half a metre from where Tilly was crouched behind the panel. The girls were treated to a few “rear” noises followed by some sighs of contentment from the relieved soldier. “Bloody war!” he muttered. “My own khazi’s a sight better than this one, and here I am in the middle of bloody nowhere fighting for God knows what. I wonder what food they have stored here?” he breathed as he fastened his trousers. “Strange that it’s all boys. Bet she thought she was lucky until she realised that male children make good cannon fodder. Still, better than girls!” The door of the toilet slammed shut.

  Bonny began to cry. Jalli put her arm around her. She could just make out Tilly signalling to remain still. They would have to remain in the hole until Mum or Dad came and told them the coast was clear. At first the bunker had been very cold. Jalli was still dressed in her pyjamas with just a coat on top. But now they were beginning to feel quite hot, and the air was bad. The officer’s contribution hadn’t helped, and the pipe was not very wide. They took it in turn to put their heads under it and draw in fresh cold air. After ten minutes it went all quiet again but the soldiers clearly hadn’t left. Tilly passed round the bottle of water. She whispered, “I hope they don’t all come!” They could still hear voices on the other side of the house and the vehicles were all stationary.

  Two hours later the driver from the first vehicle announced his vehicle should be able to continue. The broken spring had been replaced. The bodies were laid in the grave and the soldiers were formed up. The officer recited a prayer, which may or may not have been appropriate. Three soldiers were ordered to fire a volley into the air. And the graves were quickly filled in. The officer barked an order and the convoy got back under way, with Jack seated in the back of the lead vehicle, his backpack between his knees.