by Sharon McKay
As he lay curled up on the thin mat, he felt something. There was a bump underneath the mat. It was not there before. Where did it come from?
Pax pulled himself up, pushed the thin rug aside, and ran his hand across the mud floor. A small beam of light from the hall fell directly on the bump—as though he was being led to it. He scratched at the dirt. He felt something, or rather the tip of something. He pulled at it. Dirt loosened and flew up into his face. A book! Who would bury a book in a cell? He dusted it off and held it up to the light.
The book was covered in soft leather. It was red and black. He opened it and took a quick breath. Pictures, beautiful pictures! For a moment he was in another place, another time. Maybe it was a sign from God that Kai was all right. That was it. It had to be true. “Kai, be alive. Be safe.”
Bang, bang, bang. Stink Boy was coming back. Pax put the book behind him and pressed it against the cell wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them.
“What are you doing?” Stink Boy stood at the cell door. His words curled around Pax like smoke.
“Nothing,” said Pax.
“Why are you sitting like that?”
“My back hurts.”
“What do you have there?” Stink Boy stepped into the cell and held his stick over Pax’s head.
“Nothing.” Pax flinched.
“Liar.” Stink Boy waved the stick threateningly.
Pax raised his hand to protect himself. Stink Boy grabbed hold of Pax’s arm and hurled him against the far wall. Pax cried out.
“Ha!” Stink Boy held the treasure.
“I found it. It is mine.” Pax lurched forward.
“Pah! Not for you. Have you learned nothing?” Stink Boy laughed. He held the book above Pax’s head. Pax leapt. His arms slashed the air like spinning pinwheels.
“Nothing is yours in this place, not even your soul.” The crippled hand of Stink Boy came down hard on Pax’s head. Pax reeled. “Ha, ha, ha. You think you can hurt me? You are piss in the ground.” Frothy spittle dripped from the corner of Stink Boy’s mouth. He was sick, like the dogs in the street. He wiped his face with a filthy hand and opened the book. That was Pax’s moment. He reached up and tried to snatch it back.
Stink Boy yanked it upwards. A picture tore out of the book. Pax held it in his hand. He gasped. He hadn’t meant to hurt the book.
“That’s all you get.” Stink Boy growled. He sniffed the air, tucked the book under his arm, and ran down the hall, hugging the walls like a rat.
Pax crumpled to the ground, but for the first time in weeks he felt good. He had attacked Stink Boy and he was still alive. That was something.
He uncurled his fist. The picture was crumpled. Pax laid it out on the rug and rolled the heel of his palm across the page. He held the page out to try to capture the light from the grimy window. The bars of light created stripes on the picture. Pax rubbed his eyes and tried to clear away the mist that coated them like rain on a window. He squinted.
The picture was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, ever imagined. What was it? Had he seen it before? Large feathered wings fanned out across the page. It was a bird with the face of a young girl. Her head was covered with a cap of crested diamonds. Her eyes were sparkly, like white pebbles under blue water. Jewels were woven into her feathers.
“I know you,” he whispered. It was the poster he had peeled away from a wall. “You are a princess. No, you are a goddess! You are Goddess Girl.”
Pax lifted the picture to his face. Her feathered wings were as soft as silk. The jewels of her crown were as smooth as river rocks. He petted the wings and felt them flutter in his hand. Wait, he could feel the feathers. They were white—he had never seen such white, never felt white.
He wove his fingertips in and out of the speckled feathers.
“What are you doing?”
Who spoke? He looked to the door. He looked up to the window. It was a girl’s voice. No, girls would not be allowed in the prison, at least he had never heard of any.
“Are you deaf?”
Pax dropped the picture and lurched backwards as if slapped. She spoke!
“I said, why are you touching me?” She stood right in front of him now. She lifted her giant wings. They were big, much bigger than the cell.
“Can you speak?” Suddenly her wings folded together behind her and formed a long, glittering, splendid tail.
Speak?
Crab-like, Pax scurried into the corner of the cell. He cowered.
“What are you afraid of? Have you done something wrong?” Goddess Girl hovered over him.
Pax shook his head. He had done nothing wrong.
“Are you stupid?”
Pax shook his head again, but faster.
“I do not like stupid boys. Prove to me that you are not stupid.”
He sat up straight, his back pressed hard against the cold cement wall. How was he to prove such a thing?
“Do you want to fly?” she asked.
Fly? He nodded, dumbly.
“You may be stupid. I will decide later. Do you want to get out of here?”
Yes, yes. Who would not? He nodded again, this time vigorously, his head bobbing on its spindly stem. “But . . . what are you?” he whispered, the words hardly audible.
“So you do speak. This is an improvement. What am I? What are you?” She was incredulous.
“I am a boy . . . I am an orphan . . . I have no parents . . . I am alone except for Kai. I live here, in prison.” He felt ashamed, guilty.
“What is your name?”
“Pax, Paxton, but here they call me Prison Boy.”
“Is Prison Boy your name?” she asked.
Pax shook his head.
“Then why do you use it? Are you sure that you are not stupid?”
He nodded. No, he shook his head. He was confused. He couldn’t think of what to do.
“I will call you Young King. Well, Young King, if you are alone and forgotten, you have nothing to lose.” She turned her back to him. Her feathered tail fanned out to fill a room ten, twenty, a hundred times the size of his cell.
“Hurry. I do not like to be kept waiting.”
How should he do this? He took a tentative step. His feet were dirty. He put a toe on a feather.
“Really, I am quite bored.”
She spoke but did not turn around. What if Stink Boy came back right at that moment? Would he hurt her?
“You have one more chance,” said Goddess Girl.
And so Pax, Prison Boy, Young King climbed onto the feathery back of Goddess Girl, part bird, part girl. He pressed his face against her feathered head, wrapped his arms around her long, soft neck, hugged her body with his legs and felt lift. Swoosh!
They rose above the prison, the bushes, the flowers, the trees. The ground below grew small, smaller, smaller still. Warm air washed him. He felt clean. He felt no pain. He laughed, and the wind whitened his teeth. Up and up they soared. The clouds formed little pillow islands. Between them spots of sunlight danced wildly. Higher still the soft clouds buffered prickly air. The air turned cool.
Pax burrowed down into Goddess Girl’s downy feathers. He had never been so warm. He heard her wings slap against the air. He felt her heart beat, her muscles pulse, and blood pump through her body. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep, restful sleep.
When he awoke a little later, he felt calm and unafraid. He worked his way up through Goddess Girl’s feathers and sat on her back, tall and proud. The ground below had long since disappeared. The clouds too had vanished. All that was left was sunlight, great streams of brilliant light. Pax blinked and shielded his eyes as Goddess Girl skirted the sun.
“Where are we going?” he cried. The words flew back into his face. He tried again. “Where are we going?” he yelled.
Goddess Girl settled on an air current, turned her long swan neck back, and peered at him with cobalt-blue eyes. “Look,” she said.
Pax gazed down at a white sand
y beach. The sand rose in waves like the ocean before it. Each grain of sand twinkled and beckoned. They landed in a swoop, Goddess Girl tucking her wings in neatly.
Pax slid off Goddess Girl’s back and looked around with wonder. In front of him was a great sea, the water first blue, then green as the waves reached up and caught the reflection of the sun. The ice-white caps that tipped the waves became translucent before they again fell back into the blue water.
What was this place? As Pax stood, wide-eyed with wonder, a great swell of water rose up. Out of the sea came whales and tuna, sharks and minnows. Dolphin chatter infused the air.
He felt something. It surged through him with such speed it left him breathless with wonder, and on its heels . . . happiness.
They called his name on the loudspeaker. Pax opened his eyes. The pain had returned.
Chapter 27
“Pax, listen carefully,” said Ezat. They sat in the common room, cross-legged on the floor. Rugs were scattered on top of the unforgiving, cold, damp cement. There were no tables, no chairs, no lamps or bookcases. Nothing.
Pax looked at Ezat. Should he tell him about Goddess Girl? Would he believe him? No, he would wait. And anyway, she had not returned for days, no matter how many times he called out to her. Perhaps she would never come back.
Pax sat in a circle of men. All were much older than him and all were political prisoners. All were kind to him. All had bandaged feet, scarred backs, broken bones that had healed at odd angles.
Each prisoner held a piece of bread; each sipped from a tin cup. Hands quivered, liquid sloshed, loose teeth chewed slowly. Today there were vegetables floating in the cups, along with flies and bugs.
Pax sat up as tall as he could. The effort sent waves of throbbing pain up and down his spine. He cringed and said nothing. He wanted to be worthy of the other men’s company.
“This is Ebrahim. He is a great artist, a sculptor. The government feared his hands,” said Ezat.
Pax looked at Ebrahim through blurry eyes. The man was not very old, although it was hard to tell. His hair was white, his skin a patchwork of sores. There were large welts on his ankles and wrists where he had been chained. Pax tried not to look at his hands, but it was no use. They were mangled, gnarled, his fingers attached at an odd angle, his fingernails curled and split around the tips. His hand had been smashed.
Ebrahim followed Pax’s gaze and he too looked down at his hands. “I am an artist, not in my hands but in my soul. They have yet to destroy my soul. Would you like to make some art?” he asked Pax.
“Art? In this place?” Pax’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
Ebrahim nodded and smiled. It was a strange sight, a man smiling in this place. “Here, take my bread. Take the inside of the bread, the softest part. Wet it with the soup, not too much. Now mold it into a tiny sculpture,” said Ebrahim.
“See, I have one.” Ezat pulled a tiny, perfect bird from his pocket. Pax almost cried out in delight. It was a beautiful thing. “One of the guards gives our small art pieces to the women, and their babies and children, who live in the prison.”
“Babies? Children?” Pax’s eyes widened.
“They are on the other side of the wall.” Ezat shook his head slowly.
“Why?” Pax flinched.
“Why are they here? Is that what you are asking? The wives of political prisoners are innocent. What have they done except to marry the wrong man?” Ezat suddenly fell silent and swallowed several times.
Pax gazed around the circle. Heads hung low. Ezat had said that they were all political prisoners. Where were their wives and children?
“Others are in prison because they stole to feed their families,” Ebrahim added. “Some may simply have run away from husbands or family members who beat them. They were caught and charged with made-up crimes. There are other women here to carry out the sentences of their husbands or brothers. Or perhaps a man is sick of his wife and so he tells the judge that she was seen talking to another man.”
“I don’t understand,” whispered Pax.
“Which part?” Ezat asked.
“All of it.”
Ebrahim gently touched Pax’s knee. It was a signal. A guard was near. For a few moments all fell silent. When the danger passed, it was Ezat who spoke. It was as if the two men were taking turns teaching him.
“And there are young girls, too,” said Ezat.
“Girls?” Pax thought of Mega. How would she survive in such a place?
Ezat’s voice was now calm and teacher-like. “Some girls try to stand up for their rights. They might want to go to school or learn how to drive a car. Perhaps they were caught protesting, or simply writing an essay in school about women’s rights. A teacher or another student might report them to the authorities. They will be held in prison for weeks, perhaps months. Once they are released, their families will likely not accept them back. They have brought shame to their family. They are tainted, their reputations compromised.”
“But what about the courts? A judge would let them go!” No matter how hard he tried, Pax could not get his head around it.
“Many girls or women will never enter a courtroom, talk to a lawyer, or even see a judge,” said Ezat.
“But why are there babies and little children in here?” asked Pax. It was impossible. It was—inhuman.
The baton had been passed again. It was Ebrahim’s turn to speak. “If a mother is jailed, she might plead with her family or her husband’s family to take the child. If they say no, the child is brought to jail with her.”
“But what about putting the child in an orphanage?” Pax whispered.
“Most are full.” Ebrahim shrugged.
Yes, yes, Pax remembered the woman who came to the Pink House with her clipboard. He remembered her words exactly: “I am from Children’s Services. Our great King has decided that people like you should go back to your own country and take care of your own orphans.” The government did not want to spend money on orphans. What good were they?
“What happens to the children . . . in here . . . ?” Pax spoke softly, as if he didn’t really want to hear the answer.
“They are not fed properly. They have no diapers, no blankets, no toys or books. They are criminals without having committed a crime,” said Ezat. He spoke calmly, without emotion.
Pax said nothing. He dabbed the bread with soup and fiercely molded it into a shape. He was hungry. It was hard not to swallow the bread.
“Is there a way to find out if there is a boy on the other side of the wall? His name is Kai.”
Ezat nodded. “You asked once before. No one had heard of him, but I will try again.”
A bell rang. The men rose, each helping the other to stand. One by one, they stood. Knees popped, feet shuffled. No one complained. Pax tucked his little piece of art into his pocket and hobbled over to the wall that divided the men from the women. Damp seeped out of the cement to form a gritty layer of sweat that dripped in tracks down the wall.
Pax pressed his palms, his nose, his face against the wall. His chest heaved up and down, up and down, until he was breathless. His tears mixed with the damp.
“God, where are you? Help us,” he sobbed.
“Prison Boy, back to your cell.” Stink Boy stood behind him.
Pax rubbed his face with the back of his hand, pulled back his shoulders, turned, and hobbled across the common room towards the hall that led to his cell.
Chapter 28
“Hey, Prison Boy.” Stink Boy stepped into the cell and poked Pax with his stick. “Come with me,” he commanded.
“But my name was not announced over the loudspeaker.” Pax was not as frightened as he had once been. The beatings were hardening him, and he had shown no sign of betraying anyone.
“Do not ask questions!”
Stink Boy yanked Pax to his feet and put a blindfold over his eyes. The blindfold was tight. It pushed his eyes back into their sockets.
Stink Boy guided Pax down the hall with guttural sounds a
nd a stick. The screech of a cell door opening and closing was as distinctive as glass breaking on a hard floor. He held his arms out in front of him, searching, searching, his hands pedaling the air. He stumbled. He bounced off the walls. He fell and pulled himself up. The pain in his side was increasing.
“They will come for you when they are ready.”
Stink Boy pushed him into a room. It reeked of vomit, dried blood, and excrement. He tied Pax’s arms behind his back, wrenching his shoulders. Pax sat and waited.
Waiting was painful. Waiting was the real torture, worse than a beating. A beating, once started, would eventually be over, or he would be dead. But waiting went on and on.
He felt a brush of feathers against his skin.
“Come. This is no place for you.”
The blindfold fell from his eyes. His hands were untied. He felt light. There was no pain in his feet, his back. His whole body was suddenly, instantly, pain-free.
“Do not keep me waiting. I simply hate being kept waiting. It is so frightfully boring.” Goddess Girl flapped her giant wings.
“Yes, I am coming.” Pax climbed onto the back of Goddess Girl and, in a heartbeat, floors, walls, ceilings disappeared.
It was morning. The sun sparkled. The air was fresh. Pax sat up on Goddess Girl’s back and looked up at the clear blue sky.
“Sleep now, Young King. I will wake you when we arrive.” Goddess Girl threw back her jeweled head and soared heavenward.
“Where are we going?” he yelled into the wind.
“To a place that will bring you peace. Sleep.”
Pax burrowed deep into Goddess Girl’s soft down, curled into a ball, and slept. He slept for a long time, deeply and peacefully. He had a dream.
“Kai, are you safe?” he called out. And just as a prayer sometimes returns as a song, he heard, “I love you.”