2014 Year of the Horse

by Liliane Parkinson

  The seven year project had started so well. Eight men and women carefully chosen for their knowledge and ability had been flown from their homes to an island paradise. For a week they had enjoyed the luxury of a beachside estate lent by one of Wesley’s wealthy supporters. There they planned their strategies. This year, slam bang in the middle of the project timeline, IT had reported a lapse. He regretted only the waste of time and effort which he was now forced to eliminate. Brady twisted his hands together and slouched in his chair, his eyes unfocussed, looking inward. This was not the first nor would it be the last time he’d have to arrange an accident. He was relieved that one down did not mean the premature end of this project but he needed to ensure the others kept to the rules. He scowled at his laptop. Wesley poked his head in.

  “Hey the sky hasn’t fallen in yet Brady. What’s up?”

  Brady started and looked up, his frown instantly replaced by his customary grin.

  “Hey yourself. Nothing’s up that a text can’t fix. Just an operational hiccup Wesley, it’s all under control. You busy?”

  “Sure - always busy. It’s good to see you can still smile. That frown had me worried. It’s not like you to look so black.”

  “Nah it was nothing. What’s the time?” He looked down at his Rolex. The little diamonds winked at him. He stroked the smooth ripples of the bracelet. He liked everything about this timepiece; the little crown symbol and the reassuring weight. It was iconic. Its rich quality made him feel better. He looked up with a grin.

  “I need a coffee. Want one?”

  “No thanks. I’ve just finished the one Hanna made me. I must get back to my desk. Keep smiling. Smilers never lose and-”

  “Yeah and frowners never win - I’ve heard that one before Wes.”

  “Sure you have. See you later Brady.”

  Two weeks later Brady received confirmation that the job had been completed. He ordered a large wreath of synthetic blooms to be delivered to the grieving widow. He then despatched his team to cleanup; to retrieve the precious new laptop, the postcards, cell phone and SIM cards. Later that week he read the obituary on the internet.

  The website www.internationalaidnews.com gave details of the fatal accident, adding that during the funeral service, the family home had been ransacked and some of the deceased’s belongings were missing. The items believed to have been stolen, were listed. Brady e-mailed the link to each of the others.

  CHAPTER 18

  Fernando checked his inbox. An email from Emery Redpath! His cursor hovered anxiously over the sender, a decisive click and the email opened. It was short. He clicked on the link and flicked though the report. The victim’s name meant nothing but the message was clear. Fernando felt a familiar shiver of fear snake through him. For a moment he heard the guns roar in his ears and saw his mother fall. Fernando leaned back in his chair and screwed his eyes tightly shut. Sadness washed over him. If only he could turn back the clock, change history. He wished himself back to the days when he was barely thirteen, a boy growing into manhood on the family farm, before life became so complicated and nothing was quite as it seemed.

  For almost a quarter of an hour Fernando sat unaware of his surroundings lost in painful memories. He remembered the warm earthy scents and the colourful flash of parrots against the dull green jungle. The familiar jungle and the well worn path that he’d trudged along. Every fortnight without the help of a donkey or cart, he and his father walked to the market at Mapiripan, their produce strapped to their backs.

  It was a long walk, a hot and tiring trek. In spite of that, he looked forward to market day, for a few hours it added colour to his life. It gave him time out from the backbreaking work of tending the crops, a chance to talk with his father and he came to understand that chatter was not always necessary. Periods without words when the drum of his own laboured breathing, his father’s deeper rasping gasps, the steady drone of insects and more distantly the jungle sounds, spoke to his imagination.

  There was always something different to observe, to discover. Occasionally they would pass a family of spider monkeys feeding on the ripe fruits close to the track. A smile flitted over his face. They’d stopped to rest and standing together in the shade they’d spied on the troop. They had watched the exuberant antics of a youngster twisting and turning somersaults in the branches. How they had laughed together when it had fallen, shrieking as it crashed earthwards through the leaves. Its tail looped the very last branch. It swung there briefly before it clambered up to rejoin the troop and start the game again. It had reminded Fernando of his little brother, just learning to walk and tottering about in excited pleasure. His smile faded.

  For as long as he could remember, the rhythms of the land were unchanging. There was a time for clearing and a time for planting, time for tending the crops and harvesting them. There were times of plenty and times of famine. Periodically soldiers would pass through gathering taxes, demanding food and taking whatever they fancied. That was always an anxious time. The armed soldiers were unpredictable, given to sudden unexplained and often violent acts. Livestock was fair game and often they would leave in high spirits while his mother cried over her dead milk cow. Mostly though, they were left to get by on their own.

  It was a desperately hard life but they knew nothing else and expected nothing better. Now that he’d seen Bogotá he knew that Mapiripan was an insignificant town in the middle of nowhere but then back then it was where things happened.

  The market place was a large clearing of low grasses, easily trampled, lying between a straggle of houses and the Guaviare River. No more than 100 souls lived there and still it thought itself important, for it was the headquarters of FARC, the military arm of the Colombian Communist Party and they controlled the area. Up river there was a government check point, for the waterway was strategic.

  At thirteen, Fernando was not interested in geographical facts. He did not care that it rose in the Andes or that it flowed into the Orinoco and on into Venezuela. What was important was that it was a great waterway which carried life and promised adventure. It seemed to murmur to him of other places and other peoples.

  The market was always a noisy confusion; farmers mingled with townsfolk; sellers with buyers; young with old. The shoppers moved with purpose while the idly curious wandered randomly around the mounds of carefully arranged wares. Roaming youths, released briefly from the tedium of selling, zigzagged through the throng. It was a chance for him to experience the world beyond the farmstead, a brief time of escape from the fetters of endless tasks, burdens and responsibilities.

  That year had been significant. He would have remembered 1997 without the events at Mapiripan for he had stopped going to school. At thirteen his childhood was over and he was now the third adult in the household. He bent his back to adult tasks, men’s work and was expected to carry a man’s burdens. He helped his father care for the crops and looked out for his two younger sisters and his baby brother. In a few short years he would marry and then claim his own plot of land. That was the way things were done.

  It dawned a typical July day or so he thought for he was ignorant of the terrible events which would change his life and sear the date into his memory. It was early, before daylight when Fernando and his father left the farm for they wanted to be amongst the first to claim a spot. His brother and sisters slept on undisturbed and his mother fell back into bed as soon as the door creaked shut.

  Still he remembered thinking that there was something different about the day. They seemed to be the only farmers travelling to market. The countryside was asleep long after sunrise and the usual sounds of activity were missing. As they came closer to the town they realised the familiar bustle was absent. The only sound was the shuffle of their sandals on the dry beaten track.

  Fernando’s father became uneasy, cautious for these were uncertain times. Whispered rumours of brutality and bloodshed were carried as if on the wind. His father stopped, removed his load and placed it at the side of the road.

/>   “Something’s wrong my boy. Maybe not right here for surely this is the safest place in all of Meda? Still I think we should be careful. Wait here and guard our crop. I’ll go ahead to check that all is well. I’ll be back soon.”

  Fernando remained at the side of the road under a shady tree. It was alarmingly quiet; neither monkeys’ raucous calls nor parrots’ mimicking squawks disturbed the silence. The air felt oppressive, heavy and humid, even at that early hour. Fernando watched an ant trail passing unaware in the dust, each ant busy with its own affairs. It seemed he waited for a very long time. In reality barely five minutes had gone by when he heard an abrupt burst of gunfire. The silence returned, spinning a web of dread. Fernando felt fear creep upon him. He drew back into the shadows and waited.

  His father did not return.

  Eventually Fernando slunk along the roadside, a shadow amongst shadows, keeping out of sight. As he rounded the bend he saw bodies lying on the path, flies droned in the air and he smelt death. He recognised his father’s colourful cape, the one his mother had patched again and again. It kept him warm outside at night but offered no protection against bullets. Now the colours were darker, stained with blood. Fernando resisted the impulse to rush to his father’s body. While he was hesitating he saw José, their neighbour, coming down the road. He turned the corner and the guns roared.

  The donkey fell without a sound and José tumbled from his seat on the cart. Two men in camouflage fatigues emerged from the trees picked up José’s body and piled it next to Fernando’s father. They cut the donkey free, dragged it into a ditch then pulled the cart into the jungle. Fernando watched as both cart and men faded into the green dimness. He waited, his heart pounded painfully. It drummed loudly in his ears, tears stung his eyes. Finally he found courage to go back to the farm. It took him longer to get home. The trail was no longer safely familiar. He clung to the shadows and froze at every unexpected noise.

  CHAPTER 19

  Fernando’s mother was surprised to see him come home alone and flew down the track towards him.

  “Fernando why are you alone? Where’s your father? What’s happened?” Eyes wide, the whites clearly visible against his olive complexion he glanced over his shoulder down the track. His voice squeezed between deep gulps of air.

  “It was too quiet. Father was worried. He told me to wait by the roadside ... just outside of the town. I sat there to guard the harvest ... he went ahead. I heard gunshots. He said he’d come back but he didn’t. I waited ... then I crept forward in the shadows. I saw his coat ... his Joseph coat. It was stained with blood. There were so many flies and bodies heaped together.” Colour bleached from his mother’s face and her eyes became shadows of pain.

  “Aaeee,” she wailed, pounding her chest. He waited mute.

  “Then I saw José, with his donkey cart. I couldn’t stop him. They fired at him. The donkey dropped and José fell off the cart. He didn’t cry out. They dragged him onto the pile, dumped him beside Father. It was all over in a second. I waited till I thought it was safe and came home.”

  “Aaeee. Where will it end? Aaeee.”

  She wept; for herself, for her fatherless children, and for the bleak future. Fernando stood before her, his head low, his thin shoulders drooped. She could not see his face but saw his tears fall onto the dry dust at his feet. Gradually her sobbing stilled.

  “This is a disaster. Where were you? You must show me where this happened. We have to go back. We need the harvest or we’ll all starve. We have to go now. We’ll get your father’s body. Hurry! We mustn’t waste any more time.”

  “But how will we carry his body? We have no donkey or cart.”

  “We’ll find a way. Just show me where this happened.”

  With barely time to recover from his previous trek, they set out. The sun was high in the sky and it was not a good time to travel. They stopped at José’s farm to pass on the terrible news.

  “My husband’s dead, shot by rebels. Yours is too. They were both shot, dead. Fernando saw it all.” Both women wailed loudly, joined in grief. Fernando had to repeat his tale. His mother explained, “We’re going back to get our harvest. The boy abandoned it at the side of the road and I will ask for his father’s body.”

  “I’ll come with you! José must have a proper burial. They were both good men. Perhaps with three of us, the rebels will listen and we can bring their bodies back! We can pull the cart even without a donkey.”

  José’s wife was determined to go with them. It was a sombre group that trudged towards town. Fernando was young and fit but the sun drained the moisture from his body and his throat became parched. He felt faint for lack of food, fear gnawed at his stomach, and an unseen burden seemed to weigh heavy, slowing his steps. As they neared the place where he’d left the bags he became anxious and fearful, loath to go any further. The women hurried ahead, driven by anger and sorrow.

  Bullets hit the road and the two women. Fernando dived into the undergrowth and lay as if dead. He heard heavy boots on the road and bodies being dragged along. He waited expecting to be shot. Time passed and then it was night. Before the moon rose he started back to the farm. His brother and sisters were asleep when he stumbled into the house. Exhausted he fell onto the bed and finally slept. It was not a peaceful sleep. His body twitched and several times he started up in fear.

  His sister prodded him with her finger. Reluctantly he opened his eyes. It was morning and the boy was crying. They were all hungry and anxious, full of questions. The answers stuck in his throat. There was no-one else to help them, no-one else to make decisions, no-one else to feed and clothe them. He imagined snipers looking for him, stalking him, shooting them all. His fear was real, he could taste it. It was not safe to stay. The others looked to him for protection and while he’d only played at being a man, overnight with gunfire still echoing, he had become one.

  ‘Surely in the city it would be easier to find help, easier to hide?’ So they packed up their meagre belongings and what food they could find and started to trek along the jungle paths. Everywhere they met small groups of displaced people all heading in the same direction, all stunned and dazed by violence. They overheard whispered conversations about the brigade of Para-militaries that had travelled downriver and by land. Soldiers had sealed the town, cut the power supply and started the killings. No-one knew what to expect or who to trust. It was a dangerous route. Occasionally they reached a clearing filled with ramshackle hovels. Sometimes Fernando found work and they were able to rest for a short time, gather their strength before moving on.

  It was a bitter year which he could not forget, for the journey still haunted his dreams. The two youngest died before they reached the city, their bodies left behind in the jungle. There was nothing he could do. They had to keep moving if they had any hope of surviving the long march. In the city they searched in vain for their mother’s parents. Finally defeated, the street became their home. They joined the vast army of homeless vagrants stealing food and searching rubbish dumps.

  He was at his lowest when he met Frank whose friendship seemed like a coin tossed high, dark and light flashing as it fell. He wished he’d never met Frank, never believed his promises and yet, he reminded himself, without Frank he’d still be in the gutter.

  Slowly blood returned to his face and he was aware again of outside noises, a tui chortled from the nearby tree and cars passed in the streets. The sun had moved and no longer shone in the window. He shivered. He’d never get used to Auckland’s temperatures, he thought.

  He clicked the delete key and the email vanished. He renewed his resolve to play by the rules till his contract was over. Only three years to go, he told himself. He had no intention of going back home in a box or returning to find his sister dead. Fernando shivered again. He’d seen too much death in his life.

  CHAPTER 20

  Every six months George flew to New Zealand. He began to look forward to seeing Pania waiting in the arrival hall. Her ready smile and open friendliness warme
d him and she was good company. Sometimes the meetings were convened in Auckland and sometimes in Wellington, but always Pania was there when he stepped off the plane. On the whole he was pleased with the relationships he was building, Parsons might be prickly but the meetings progressed at a relaxed pace. Mutual respect and trust made it easier to agree on effective strategies whenever potential issues were identified, nonetheless there was a lack of urgency amongst his colleagues which sometimes irritated him. He had to remind himself to chill out and worry less.

  Pania had kept her promises and organised a trip to Weta Workshops and a visit to Te Papa. It was the perfect distraction and for half a day they forgot about their work. They marvelled at the craftsmanship and attention to detail which were evident in the clothing and props on display. Awestruck, George stopped in front of the display of swords and daggers. For a moment he wished that the real world was more like Tolkien’s; that forces for good always triumphed. He stood lost in thought while Pania lingered by the cabinet holding the hobbits’ soft capes with their beautiful silver clasps. He didn’t notice that she’d joined him.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  He started and grinned sheepishly. “I was wishing for an ideal world in which good always triumphs.”

  “Then we’d both be out of a job. And anyway, wouldn’t it be dead boring, always knowing that things work out in the end? Give me a few hefty orcs or rogue wizards any day.”

  “You’re right of course. Middle Earth is ...” He stopped. It wouldn’t do to suggest the New Zealand was boring without a bit of terror to liven things up. “Let’s hope that the orcs and wizards stay in the museum and leave Middle Earth in peace. Still as I always say, expect-”

  “The unexpected.” With a grin Pania interrupted to finish his catchphrase.