by Tim Merriman
Chapter Six
As the giant bus labored over the Bay Bridge on its way to Kansas City, Daudi pressed against the window, thrilled to see San Francisco and the huge expanse of water they were crossing.
“Describe everything, Daudi,” Masozi asked as they passed french fries back and forth and munched on their hamburgers, the first of this type of food they’d ever had.
“This is good, Masozi. The food, I mean. The scenery is beautiful. We are on a giant bridge over more water than I have ever seen before. There are white birds flying above and I see houses everywhere from the shore to the tops of the hills. There are tall, tall buildings behind us, taller than the Leopard Tree, and the houses are so big they must hold several families.”
While he was looking from the window to Masozi, swiveling his head so he would not miss a thing, Daudi noticed a man with tattoos and metal rings through his eyebrow looking back at him with a fierce expression. Daudi was used to seeing some villagers in Africa with similar adornment, but this was the first American he had seen with such things. The man had a crown of bright orange hair that reminded Daudi of the roosters at the orphanage, but he assumed this man was some kind of warrior. Suddenly the big man moved backward and grabbed what was left of their food in the McDonald’s bags.
“You got a problem with sharing?” he growled, keeping his voice low so other passengers wouldn’t hear. Daudi was suddenly very aware that the bus driver was at the other end of the bus and far too focused on the traffic to worry about what was happening at the back of the bus.
“Who took our food, Daudi?” Masozi demanded with anger in his trembling voice.
“Shhhhh, Masozi. Do not anger him. He looks as fierce as a Maasai lion hunter. I do not know his tribe and do not want to know it.”
“He took our food. I wanted another one of those hamburgers,” Masozi insisted.
“Masozi, quiet. We are not fighters. This man is testing us. He may be like a flying monkey from the Enchanted Forest, waiting to tear us apart. If we are quiet, perhaps he will leave us alone.”
They sat in silence as the bus rolled out of the Bay area and up the river valley toward the Sierra Nevada in the waning light of evening. Daudi wanted to talk but the man who took their food kept looking backward over the seat to see if they had anything else worth taking. Daudi was beginning to wonder how they would get to Kansas on this fine bus if this man planned to steal from them. They had so little already. Sister Anna had given them just enough money to buy a little food along the way. When the man wasn’t looking, Daudi slipped a bill separately into each pocket on his shirt. As the bus rolled on, the rhythm rocked the riders to sleep, one by one. The children leaned into each other and slept hard, catching up after two long days of travel. Daudi’s dream showed the face of a crazy man with tattoos and rings in his eyebrow attached to the body of a leopard, preparing to pounce from a limb high above in a tree. He woke in a cold sweat as the bus pulled into a large, well-lit parking lot next to another McDonald’s and the driver made an announcement.
“We’re gonna be here exactly one hour. Get some food, stretch your legs and use the toilet. We’re leaving at five a.m. sharp, so don’t be late or you’ll get left.”
Daudi woke the others and suggested they get off to stretch. The tattooed man was gone already. When the kids climbed down from the bus, the monkey-man was waiting for them where the other riders could not see him.
He grabbed Daudi by the shirt and dragged him into the shadows behind the bus.
“Gimme your money, you little punk, or I’ll beat your brains out.”
“I have only enough money for food for my friends. Please do not ask for that.”
“Give me all you’ve got, or you’re dead. Got it?”
Daudi reached in his right shirt pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill Sister Anna had given him. He said nothing but pretended to drop it when handing it to the monkey-man.
“Idiot,” the man muttered as he let go of Daudi long enough to grab at the fallen bill blowing across the parking lot. Daudi took the opportunity to pull Masozi and Ramla toward the lights of the McDonald’s. They ducked through the door and he pulled them toward the restrooms down the hall to the right of the food counter. They went right on out the back door and stopped to catch their breath behind the café.
“He took our money, Daudi, did he not?”
“Yes, he took some of it. Sister Anna gave me two pieces of American money. I dropped one of them and he chased it as it blew away. I have the other one but we must be very careful with it so it will last as long as possible. Are you hungry?” he asked both of them.
Masozi smiled in the dim security light behind the dumpsters. “I am always hungry, Daudi. I thought you knew that.”
“We cannot eat here. If we go back in, the monkey-man may be waiting. I think the bus is dangerous also.”
“Where are we?” Masozi asked.
“I don’t know,” Daudi admitted, looking around for a place for them to hide until he could figure out what to do next.
“Stay with me,” he said, taking their hands. He led them beyond the parking lot at the back of the McDonald’s into the darkness of a tunnel under the highway. When they emerged on the other side, he thought they may well have found the Emerald City. Except this place wasn’t all green. It was every color of the rainbow, all mixed up together. A giant glass doorway was in front of them, surrounded by crazy blinking lights. Hundreds of people milled around just inside. Daudi was afraid to go in, but he looked back at the tunnel and saw the monkey-man silhouetted against the far end, so he plunged ahead, leading his friends toward a door that popped open magically just as he reached for the handle.
Daudi paused for a moment, unfamiliar with electric doorways, but his hesitation disappeared as he looked backward to see the monkey-man headed into the tunnel after them. He grabbed Ramla and she grabbed Masozi as the three of them plunged into the colorful lights and noisy machines in the hotel lobby. It was nearly sunrise but people were everywhere in the place. Most were clustered around tables or the noisy machines. Daudi tried to focus on an escape route instead of the unusual sights and sounds that surrounded him, dragging the other two behind him. He ran toward a staircase, but lost his footing when the stair moved from underneath him. He realized the stairs were moving upward. He’d never seen such a strange thing, but decided it offered the best way out of their current predicament.
“Hang on,” he said and firmly planted his feet on the next step to appear. The others stumbled on to the escalator behind him and the three held onto the rubber railing for dear life.
“Daudi, what are you doing to us?” Masozi asked, his sightless eyes wide with fright. “Stairs that move? This is a crazy dream, or magic. Where are we going?”
“It is taking us up, to another floor above the one we were just on. Lean over so we cannot be seen from below. I don’t want the monkey-man to see us,” Daudi explained.
“Where are we now, Daudi?” Masozi asked when they were dumped in a heap at the top of the escalator. Ramla helped Masozi get up and Daudi looked around. He could see a giant glass wall and a pool of blue water. When they approached it, the glass door opened magically again and they were standing near the water. Daudi leaned down and felt the water, then licked his fingers. The water had a strange taste and he made a face that showed his dismay. Ramla pointed to a water cooler with paper cups and smiled.“That’s a better idea, Ramla. Let us drink and rest and decide what to do.” Daudi sounded much more in control than he felt. They sat on a lounge chair by the pool and drank as much fresh cool water as they could hold. In moments they were asleep in a heap, completing the night’s rest cut short by the stop at McDonald’s. They had been sleeping for what seemed like only a few minutes when their rest was interrupted again.
“Wake up, youngsters.” An old man in a dark blue uniform reached down to tap their shoulders.
Ramla woke first and shook the others awake.
“Who is it, Daudi?”
Masozi asked yawning.
“Police,” Daudi said with great concern in his voice.
“Aren’t you kids up a little early? Pool opens at seven a.m.,” he said with a grandfather’s indulgent smile.
“Yes sir. We are up very early,” Daudi said with certainty.
“You’re gonna miss that free breakfast for all-night gamblers and hungry kids going on down in the basement. Your folks sleeping in, I reckon.” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “Say, you’re here for that Special Olympics, aren’t you?” the man asked with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Oh yes, we are very special. Do you know about the Special Olympics?” Daudi asked, mimicking what he had just heard with no idea what he meant. Special, Mamere had always said he was special. Perhaps he wasn’t telling a lie. He did not like having to make up stories, but this trip was demanding some serious truth stretching. Masozi lit up and said, “Ramla can spot leopards from across a soccer field.” Ramla shrunk at the mention of her name, not wanting the attention.
“Well, I’ll bet she can. Leopards, is that your team?” the old man chuckled as he asked, not seeming to care that they did not get a chance to answer his questions. “I’m seeing kids like you with wheelchairs all over the place, headed for the park for those Olympics. Follow me and I’ll point you at that early birds breakfast. Oughta be just fresh as can be at this hour.”
The man led them back to the escalator, going slower than Masozi needed but with great interest in taking care of them. Maybe this was truly the Land of Oz, Daudi thought. Maybe it wasn’t just a story after all. Certainly, the things that had been happening and the sights they were seeing were every bit as fantastic as those in the book they treasured. They rode the moving stairs past the main floor to a lower level featuring many brightly lit stores with beautiful clothes, jewelry, and candies. Tucked in one corner was a cluster of dining tables and chairs with a long serving table heaped with trays of steaming food. The man in the blue uniform bade them goodbye and went back to his business, grinning at his good deed. The kids could not believe their good fortune. Not only had the policeman walked away without arresting them, he had brought them to this sumptuous banquet and told them to eat as much as they liked.
They looked around, fearful of coming in contact with less friendly security guards, but none was evident, so they grabbed plates and piled them high with cooked eggs, pork sausages, bread, and marmalade. This was even better than McDonald’s and it was going to cost them nothing. Orange juice was already poured into glasses at the end of the table so they each took two.
“Daudi, are there truly birds here?” Masozi wondered.
“What do you mean?” Daudi asked.
“Early birds. Like the policeman said.”
“It is early, Masozi, but I see no birds. It seems strange that all these people choose to be inside when the sun is coming up outside.”
They settled into serious eating while a steady stream of people wandered in to get food. The people all looked very sleepy, like they had not awakened fully. The kids had no idea these people had probably not even been to bed. When their plates were empty, they pushed back from the table looking like lion cubs who had gorged on a fresh kill, bellies swollen full of food. They took their trays and trash to the designated space and left the breakfast area to explore their strange surroundings.
“Masozi, we are seeing beautiful clothing and jewels in shops all along a great hallway. The store owners smile as we go past.”
“That’s good, but we cannot stay here, can we?”
“No,” Daudi said seriously. “We must find our way to Kansas without the bus. The sun must be rising. Let us go walk toward the sun in the east.”
They rode the moving stairway back to the main floor and found the front door. The old man in the uniform was standing and smiling as they came by.
“Thank you, Constable,” Daudi said politely. “The food was very good.”
“No birds though, not even early ones,” Masozi offered.
“That’s a good ’un youngster. No early birds. If you’re going over to that park for the Olympics, just walk on that road to the left. It leads right to it. I saw folks setting up the tents yesterday. Gonna be hot here today. You’ll need that tent. Have fun.”
They waved and walked on, wondering how they’d found such a magical place and how far it was to Kansas. They looked back at the building as they walked eastward toward the warm glow of a rising sun.
“It says it is the Golden Nugget, Masozi. America is much stranger than I thought but a place like this must mean we are on the Yellow Brick Road.”
They walked hand in hand down a sidewalk into the glare of the sun. A banner in the distance stretched across a green lawn. It read, welcome to reno, special olympians!
When they arrived at the expansive green lawn, a woman bounced up to them wearing a white T-shirt emblazoned with a colorful trio of kids in all colors.
“Welcome, welcome. We are so pleased to have you here. And what event are you entering, dear boy?” she asked, laying her hand on Masozi’s arm.
“I don’t know. Daudi, tell her. What are we doing?”
“We’ve never been to these Special Olympics. What do we do, Miss?”
“You, young man,” she said to Masozi, “can enter any event you like. You can enter a race, throw a javelin, whatever you like. I’ll give your friend a list of events and you can decide. And I have a T-shirt for each of you.” She was in a hurry to get to others just arriving, so she tossed them shirts that were a bit large and left them to study the events list.
Daudi saw a man with a large camera like the one Rosa carried and wondered again what she had thought about their disappearance at the airport. He knew she must be very angry with them for running away, but realized with mixed feelings that he would probably never see her again and so would not have to face her anger. The man came over and took pictures while they pulled on the T-shirts over the now less-than-clean shirts they’d worn on the trip.
“You kids come from California?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Daudi answered, not sure what to let the man know.
“Is the blind kid competing?” the man asked as if Masozi was not there.
“Yes, the blind kid is competing,” Masozi said with an edge in his voice.
“Good, good.” The impertinent photographer spoke to Daudi in a friendly manner, unaware he was treating Masozi like furniture.
“I am a runner,” Masozi said with confidence.
Ramla and Daudi studied him as if he were a new person they had not met.
“You run?” the man asked in amazement, finally looking directly at Masozi.
“I am swift as the leopard,” Masozi bragged. He did not feel that way, but was confident he would rather try than say he could not.
“Are all of you Olympians?” the friendly man asked as he snapped more photos. “Are you competing in the events?”
“We are trainers,” Daudi decided. “Ramla and I help Masozi prepare to compete.” That seemed to be the right answer, or at least one that made sense, as the man nodded.
“Can I take your picture together?” he asked.
Masozi answered with pride, “But of course you may. We are a special team. Take our photo.”
They bunched together in their beautiful T-shirts, ebony faces smiling, except for Ramla, who scrunched her face in concern and shrunk behind the boys as much as she could. The photographer snapped a few shots and wandered off to talk to other children. Daudi was relieved when the photographer left. He gathered water bottles and fruit from the table of free foods for the competitors and families and brought them to where the others waited.
“What shall we do, Daudi? Are we going on to Kansas or staying here?”
“I’m not sure, Masozi. They seem to think you will run in a race.”
“I will do that. And I may lose the race, but they gave us nice shirts and there is food that we can carry with us.”
“We need something
to carry it in,” Daudi said, looking around.
Ramla walked around behind Daudi and picked up a plastic grocery bag that was caught against the base of the tent. She held it out and he put the apples, oranges, and water into the bag. Then she pointed to his shirt and made a motion with her hands as though she had an open book. She had never asked for anything before. Daudi was astonished.
“Thank you for finding the bag, Ramla. You wish me to read the book now?” he asked.
She nodded her agreement and Masozi smiled. “Ramla is becoming our guide again, Daudi. She wants the book to make the decision about what to do next. Do as she asks.”
Daudi let the book fall open and began to read in a steady voice. The morning breeze in the dry Nevada air ruffled the gray-green leaves of the giant cottonwood under which they relaxed.
The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of the journey.
Ramla laid down with her beautiful face propped on her tiny hands and listened, transfixed by the strange imagery of the new land where she had become a fugitive, homeless on the road to Kansas. Masozi sighed and said, “It sounds like we must keep moving after I run the race, or we will never get to Kansas.”
“Yes,” Daudi said. “The free food here is very helpful, but it will not get us where we need to go.” Daudi kept reading to pass the time until the races started.
Children and parents who wandered the festive grounds of the Special Olympics began to gather to listen to the familiar story. Though they could not quite place his accent, they were mesmerized by his reading. The children who waited to compete moved as near as they could to Daudi, their wheelchairs touching each other. His calm voice was counterpoint to the bustle of activity near the sign-in tent. In the background, the photographer snapped photos, marveling at the scene. These obviously foreign children supposedly from California had bonded with other special children from the western states. Whatever wizard put this together deserved a medal, the man was thinking.
When it was time for the sprints, a woman came to bring Masozi over to the starting point.