Diamond Boy

by Michael Williams

  “I’m fine, Patson,” she said, but I knew she was only trying to be brave.

  “But I’m not. I need you to hug me tight,” I answered, insisting she climb up onto my back. Grace was the one person with whom I could truly be myself. I never had to worry what she thought about me; I never had to explain myself to her. I was her Big Brother with capital letters and that was all that mattered to her. I didn’t tell her everything, not anymore, but I told her a lot of stuff that I wouldn’t tell my father or even some of my friends at school. I liked the way she listened to me, with seriousness and complete attention, as if for that moment, I was the only person in the world talking to her. It was a habit she had inherited from my mother, and I loved her for it.

  Grace clambered onto my back and wrapped her arms tightly around my neck. “I’m scared of the bats, Patson,” she whispered into my ear. “One almost flew into my face. And Boubacar scares me too.”

  “How old are you, Gracie?”

  “You know how old I am.”

  “I forgot. You’re seven or eight years old, right?”

  “No, I’m not! I’m ten.”

  “Ten?”

  “Well, almost ten.”

  “Then you must know that bats are the butterflies of the night. They sleep during the day and can’t wait to stretch their wings at nighttime. Imagine sleeping through the whole day and only waking up when the sun goes down. You’d be hungry and stiff when you woke up. That’s why they zip through the air once the sun sets, eating mosquitoes and playing with one another. They can’t do anything to you. And as for Boubacar, he just looks scary.”

  “He speaks funny.”

  “That’s because he speaks French. He’ll look after us. He knows where he is going.”

  In the distance the violent crack of a rifle shot frightened a flock of herons from a nearby tree. They launched themselves from their sleeping perches, exploding in a shower of white feathers.

  We fell to the ground.

  “We must move,” urged Boubacar. “Come on. Get up.”

  The terrain was uneven and difficult to negotiate in the dark. I stumbled forward with Grace on my back. Another round of gunfire crackled through the night. Grace’s grip tightened around my neck but I ran on. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw lights from a vehicle, scudding through the bushes, closing in on us. Loud voices headed in our direction. Then someone broke cover from my right and ran across my path, followed by two more people, their frightened faces lit by the headlights.

  “We must run now. Leave your bags. Leave everything,” ordered Boubacar as he swept Grace off my back and started running with her in his arms. My father clung to his briefcase and, grabbing the Wife’s hand, pulled her along behind him. But she would not leave her suitcase, so he gathered it up, and pushed her forward in front of him. I dropped the suitcase I was carrying, swung my backpack higher onto my shoulders, and followed Boubacar. My stomach knotted in fear of what might happen to us, and somehow a new power surged in my legs.

  Gunshots boomed across the bush as the lights from the vehicle grew brighter.

  The wail of a baby hurriedly silenced; a scream of a woman in pain.

  All around us people were running, darting from tree to tree. For hours we hadn’t seen anyone. Now, suddenly, flushed out by guns and beams of light, people were running with us. Where had they come from? Boubacar must have known that there were others heading for Marange. He must have seen them, yet made sure we avoided them. Our cautious progress had become a noisy, full-on flight with vehicles pounding through the bush behind us.

  Keeping up with Boubacar was hard but I had to stay close to my sister. I would not lose her to this chaos of the night. With no warning, Boubacar herded me into an outcrop of rocks, and my sister scrambled out of his arms and into mine.

  Tears streamed from her eyes and I held her hard against me, trying to still her trembling. “It will be okay. Shhh, don’t cry.”

  More gunshots, more frightened voices.

  “Over here!” Boubacar beckoned to my father and the Wife, sprinting toward us. My father’s face was gleaming with sweat. I had never heard him breathing so hard, yet he clung to his briefcase, then dropped it to sweep Grace into his arms and lay with her flat on the ground.

  “Under the rocks. Keep your heads down,” ordered Boubacar as we scrambled into the shelter of the rocks as best as we could.

  Boubacar quickly disappeared among the rocks above us. My father squeezed Grace into an even smaller space hidden by grass and wedged his briefcase in front of her as if it were a magical protective barrier. The Wife whimpered as male voices barked orders and came closer. Two vehicles converged near our hiding place and a second pair of lights swept past us. Without warning, three soldiers ambled from the cover of the bush, their automatic rifles held loosely in front of them. A black-booted, gun-metal presence filled the clearing not more than ten meters away. One of the soldiers held a red-tipped cigarette, pulsing in the darkness. They seemed unhurried and talked in low murmurs. Then the trees across from our hiding place blazed in the harsh onslaught of headlights, and I realized if the soldiers were to look in our direction they would be blinded by those headlamps. Boubacar had chosen our hiding place well. My father firmly squeezed my wrist. I didn’t need his words to understand this was the moment of our greatest danger yet. Grace was safe behind us, and the Wife’s trembling hand was clasped over her mouth. I was grateful to her for that.

  Four young men and a woman stumbled into the glare of the jeep’s headlights, clutching bags to their chests. Three soldiers, rifles pointed at them, were close behind. A second jeep stopped abruptly, its driver descending on the group trapped in the light.

  “Lie down!” the driver screamed, and a young man fell to the ground, covering his head with his hands. “Now stay down because you do not think when your head is upright.” With the sole of his boot, he ground the man’s face into the dirt, while the soldiers ripped into the bags of the others. The men were ordered to take off their shirts and trousers, and a soldier, with his rifle now slung over his back, carefully searched their clothes.

  “What are you doing here?” the driver asked the man trapped under his foot as if he were talking to a child. “Where are you going?”

  A jumble of terrified gibberish came from the ground, and the driver smashed the butt of his rifle onto the man’s legs. The crack of wood against bone, the cry of agony, as he jerked into a tight ball. The driver sauntered over to the other three men and the woman.

  His rifle burst into life, spitting flames as bullets bit into the dirt. The deafening noise echoed off the rocks. But it wasn’t dead bodies or silence that followed. Instead the night filled with very-much-alive screams of terror as the men and the woman clung to one another.

  “Yes, you are alive. Now go and never return, or you will be dead,” said the driver, prodding the men with the tip of his weapon. “Not you,” he said to the woman and nodded to one of the soldiers. Without further words, she was thrown into the back of one of the jeeps, while the terrified men lifted their wounded companion and dragged him away. Out of the jeep’s lights, the night swallowed them whole.

  “You find anything?” the driver asked his comrade, rifling through the clothes and bags.

  “Nothing. Perhaps she can tell us,” he said, pointing to the woman in the jeep.

  “Perhaps not, but it will be fun to find out,” said the driver as the others chuckled knowingly. They clambered into the jeep beside her and drove away. The second jeep followed, and soon the throbbing of their engines faded; the beams of their bobbing headlights grew smaller.

  We did not move. My father’s grip softened on my wrist and he wiped the sweat from his face. I scanned the darkness for any movement.

  “I think they’ve gone,” I whispered.

  My father did not answer. He inched forward on his stomach.

  “Patson?” Grace’s small voice came from behind the briefcase.

  “Have they gone?” asked the Wif
e.

  “Stay where you are.” What if Boubacar had fled? I shuffled forward to peer at the rocks above us. “Boubacar?”

  At the sound of my voice, my father raised his hands to silence me. I pointed upward, and he cautiously rose to his feet, keeping an eye on the clearing.

  “Boubacar!” he called.

  No one answered.

  I scrambled out of our hiding place and stared into the darkness. My father called out Boubacar’s name again, panic in his voice. Out here his book knowledge could do nothing to help his family survive. He clambered up the rocks, calling Boubacar’s name louder and louder. Grace slipped out from behind the briefcase and stood up.

  “I don’t like it here, Patson. I want to go home,” she said, a sob catching in the back of her throat.

  “We can’t go home,” said the Wife, looking wildly about her. “We have to get to my brother. James will help us. There is no other way. We have to find James.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, I agreed with the Wife. The option of going home had long passed. We had no choice but to find Marange and then James Banda, the man responsible for us running through the bush away from soldiers, hiding under rocks, terrified for our lives. Diamonds for everyone, he had said to the Wife. He hadn’t told her about the roadblocks or about the soldiers attacking people in the night. He had forgotten that part.

  And then my father appeared, grinning, with Boubacar by his side. Grace ran to him and threw her arms around one of his legs. “Thank you, thank you for coming back for us.”

  Boubacar rested his hand on her head and bent down to look into her eyes.

  “I didn’t leave you, Mademoiselle. I had to see if the soldiers were gone.”

  “Who were those poor people?” I asked.

  “Those boys wanted to be men. It is the way here. When you have worked the mines, you are no longer a boy. If you make it into the eye, you are seen as a man.”

  “And they did not make it?” my father asked.

  “No, their luck ran out. They were found camping in the valley near the diamond fields, waiting for a chance to fill their sacks with soil. It was as close as they could get to the fields.”

  “What did those soldiers want from them?” I asked.

  “Diamonds. The police usually patrol this area, but I have never seen soldiers before. This is something new. I don’t know why the army is here.”

  “And the woman with them?” asked the Wife, but he offered her no answer.

  “Do we still have far to go? I’m tired,” said Grace.

  Boubacar crouched and laid his hands gently on her shoulders. “I need you to be brave, Mademoiselle Gracie, and when you are tired, I will carry you. You do not need to be afraid,” he added. “While I am here, you can wear my magic tie. Whoever wears it cannot be harmed. Would you like that?”

  Grace nodded and Boubacar solemnly took off his tie and placed it around her neck.

  We gathered what was left of our luggage and again walked out into the night, knowing better than to ask how much longer it would be to Marange.

  A full moon rose above Elephant Skull and bathed us in a silvery glow. I had lost all sense of time and space, the shimmering sky too bright to find those stars that might have marked our progress. We had walked for three, maybe four, maybe five hours, I could not say. I remember stopping briefly and drinking foul, dark water from a muddy pool. I remember the Wife weeping on the ground and my father putting his arms around her, before dragging her to her feet. I remember tripping over tangled roots in the dark, falling over and rolling down an embankment and Boubacar lifting me off the ground, dusting me off, and pushing me forward.

  Uncle James was responsible for all of this. Uncle James Banda. Diamonds for everyone, he had said. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and staying awake. The heaviness of sleep deadened my arms and legs. My neck seemed incapable of holding my head erect and it dropped of its own accord onto my chest until I jerked it upright. This must be sleepwalking, I thought. I stubbed my toe, grazed my arm against a thorn bush, and awakened only long enough to again walk, walk forward into the dark night. I dreamed of cool fridge water and clean, soft sheets and Sheena.

  Although the forest around us was eerily quiet, I had an unnerving sensation that we were being watched. Every flickering shadow threatened. The moonlight illuminated shapes that seemed to move but then when I looked again they went still. It was difficult to make out what was solid and what was not. All animal noises had been silenced and we walked on, on through a sleeping forest.

  And then I glimpsed a shadow in human form staring at me. The ash-gray figure was no taller than me and stood at the foot of a hulking mimosa tree, leaning on a pair of crutches. I could not tell if it was a girl or a boy, alive or dead, or whether I was dreaming or awake. But it stared at me with eyes that were real enough. The figure lifted its dust-gray arm and pointed back to where we had come from, its lips moving with words I could not hear. Moonlight spilled through the branches, forming a halo of silver around its head.

  I was so tired, I was not afraid. I moved toward it just as the figure turned away and disappeared into the low-hanging branches of the mimosa tree. The forest was as silent as an empty church. Boubacar’s pace had never slowed. Grace’s arms were flung limply around his neck. She slept like a rag doll on his shoulder. My father dragged the Wife behind him, still clinging to the last of the four suitcases she could not live without. I trudged on, barely able to keep my eyes open.

  I was too exhausted to think about what I had seen or what it had meant. That would come later, but now all I could think of was sleeping. Boubacar suddenly stopped and raised his hand. Once again we fell wearily to the ground, no longer concerned with the noise we made. He whistled—three short notes—like the call of a nightjar. Grace did not stir. I wished he would carry me. My eyelids drooped shut.

  Behind me, the Wife’s whispered urgency roused me. “Look, Joseph, look!”

  A single flame rose from beneath the ground and floated in the air only ten paces ahead of us.

  I rubbed my eyes as, one by one, small flames rose out of the earth and hovered in the air. In their flickering light, figures emerged from the ground. Their faces were stained with gray dust and sand, their bloodshot eyes illuminated by the light from wax candles they held in front of them. Some carried long iron rods; others bore pickaxes upon their shoulders.

  My skin prickled the rest of me awake.

  Wordlessly they stared at us through the darkness, their gray faces all holding blank, incurious expressions. I had heard of zombies roaming the earth after midnight but had never believed those stories until this moment. Their silent presence was unworldly. If Grace had been awake, she would have screamed. Could I still be asleep and dreaming of the undead rising from the earth? Was the figure I had seen standing under the mimosa tree one of these creatures? Boubacar had not moved since the figures emerged from the ground. He whistled the same three short notes again, and from the darkness a voice responded in a language I had never heard before.

  “Wait here,” whispered Boubacar, crouching down beside me and laying Grace gently on the ground without waking her. “If anything happens to me, you take your sister and run for your life. You do not look back. You do not wait for your father or his wife. You run. You understand, Patson? You run faster than you ever have before.”

  There was no doubting the warning or the large knife in the palm of his right hand. He quickly pulled a short iron bar from his bag and rose to his feet, walking slowly toward the waiting figures. He concealed the blade behind his back but carried the iron bar in full view. I glanced at Grace, still protected from these zombies by her armor of sleep. More glimmers of candlelight emerged from the earth and moved gradually toward us, until we were surrounded. The murmuring of a strange language covered us, huddled as we were on the ground. I strained to hear a familiar word or make sense of imminent danger in the tone of the speaker. Fully awake now, my body hummed with tension,
fear, and wonder. At the first indication of danger from Boubacar I would sweep up Grace, and run directly toward the flames. I would scatter these zombies with a scream of the living and bring my sister to safety before she woke up. They would not devour her, or drag her into their shallow graves.

  “Shhh, Patson,” whispered my father. “Easy, son. It’s all right.”

  My father’s words jolted me out of my fear. “What are they, Baba?”

  “They are diamond miners working at night, Patson. We must have entered the diamond fields of Marange. Look, hundreds of them digging through the earth.”

  More figures emerged from a different hole only a few meters away. They were oblivious to our presence, intent only on their work. In the dull yellow light of lanterns and candles, they lifted large, heavy sacks onto their heads and slowly disappeared into the forest that fringed the field.

  “But why at night?”

  “I don’t know, son,” he admitted, squeezing my arm.

  “They’ll take me to my brother,” declared the Wife. “We’ll be all right once we get to James. James will look after us.” She made to stand up, but my father held her in place.

  The foreign voice barked an instruction and one by one the flames disappeared back into their holes beneath the ground. A blanket of darkness descended once again over the field. Boubacar returned. He no longer carried his knife.

  “The Mazezuru syndicate has an understanding with Banda. They have allowed us to cross their section of the field and go on to Banda’s camp.” Turning to a thin man standing silently by his side, Boubacar said, “This man will escort us.”

  Leaning on a long iron rod, his bony frame didn’t seem capable of holding the heavy sack on his back. He looked as exhausted as I was.

  “Thank you,” said my father. “Thank you very much.”

  The man did not respond; instead he turned away and, in a maneuver that suggested he had done this a hundred times before, adjusted the weighty sack on his back. He stabbed his iron rod into the ground for support, and made his way through the field, skirting its shallow craters. Boubacar picked up his bag, packed away his own iron bar, and carefully lifted Grace into his arms to follow closely behind our new guide. I allowed my father and the Wife to go ahead of me and took up the rear.