I discovered I could wriggle my toes. But try as I did, I could not find the strength even to lift my head to see them. I could swivel my eyes, but my neck I could not move however hard I tried. I was overwhelmed by terror, and I was shivering uncontrollably, yet I did not feel cold. I did not feel anything. This was what the beginning of dying was like, I thought.
In my panic, I cried out, calling for help, louder and louder, until my throat ached with it. Hearing myself at least lifted my spirits. If my voice worked and my throat ached, then that must be good. I was still alive. There was hope. But I knew I needed help. I could hear the waves tumbling on to the sand not too far away, they were rushing up towards me, every wave coming closer. I feared the worst. Sooner or later the sea would reach me, and then cover me. I had to find a way to move or I would drown. I shouted for help again, and again. But no one came.
I did hear that strange whispering again, and a chirruping and a chattering like a flock of thousands of birds gathering to roost at sunset. It was a sound that reminded me of evenings at home when we were out playing cricket in the last of the daylight. My hearing worked, and my memory worked. I could see the sun, and the sky. My seeing worked too. And there was more feeling now in my legs and feet. Every new sign of life in me gave me hope.
I felt something tickling my toe, then crawling up my leg. An insect, I thought, a scorpion maybe and it might sting me. But I didn’t mind. I could feel it. I could feel it.
I heard that whispering sound again. It wasn’t bird noise after all, but voices, small voices. I thought at first in my muddled head that these might be scorpions talking. I tried again to lift my head to see, and still could not move it. Then I was drifting away, down into a deep sleep. It was a comfortable sleep, a warm sleep. There was no more shivering. If this was dying then I did not mind a bit, not any more.
I woke to more whispering and murmuring. It was certainly not birds, I decided, nor was it the hush of waves washing back over the sand into the sea. It was not birds. It was not waves. It was people, lots of them, and they were speaking in small voices, voices that were all around me. When I tried to lift my head now, I found to my surprise I could do it, just a little, just enough.
Then I felt something on the forefinger of my right hand. I looked down, expecting to see a scorpion. Instead, there was a little man there, standing on my finger. Minute he was, too small to be real, I thought. He was wearing a three-cornered hat, a long coat, and he had buckles on his shoes. I never saw anyone dressed like this before. I imagined at first I must be dreaming. But then I knew I wasn’t asleep. I could smell the sea, and there were clouds in the sky, and birds, white birds flying above me, crying and cawing. I could feel the breeze on my face. None of this was imagined, none of this was a dream, and nor were the crowds of little people I could now see all over the beach, nor were the horses and carts imagined, nor were the little coloured blankets that I saw covering me like patchwork from my ankles up to my chest. The little man standing now in the palm of my open hand might have been no bigger than my little finger. But he was real. I was not imagining him. This was not a dream.
He was helping a little old lady up on to my hand, and then they were both making their way slowly up my arm and over my shoulder and across my chest, towards the point of my chin. The little old lady was walking with a stick and wore a long blue dress and feathers in her hat. They stood there together side by side, peering down in silence at me for a long while.
And when she spoke it was in a thin tremulous voice, which reminded me at once of how my grandmother’s voice had been. There was hushed silence all around me. Everyone was listening. I had no idea to begin with what she was saying to me. But then I began to recognise a word here, and a word there. The sound of the language was oddly familiar. It was how the aid workers in the camp used to speak. The little old lady was definitely speaking English. Her tone was warm, and hospitable, so I presumed this must be a speech of greeting, like an elder back home in my town might have given to a visitor. I could tell that she was assuming I understood every word she was saying, which I was not.
When the little old woman had finished speaking everyone clapped, and the children amongst them were jumping up and down cheering wildly.
A thousand thoughts were running through my mind and none of them made any sense. Was all this really happening to me? My shivering had stopped entirely. My whole body was tingling now with life, warmth and feeling. The old lady standing before me was breathing hard after the exertions of her speech, leaning heavily on her stick. I did not know what to say, but I felt I had to say something, that it was expected. The silence all around me told me that much. But I was struck dumb, still trying to take it all in, to believe what I was seeing. These people were all living, breathing creatures, but all were impossibly small, and dressed like no one I had ever seen before. They were real, as real as I was. So if they were real, and if they all spoke English, I thought, then maybe I had been washed up in England. But the aid workers that I had got to know near my town in Afghanistan were not small like these people, and neither did they dress like them.
I decided to try on them some of my English words I knew, to be sure I was right, that they did really speak English. I tried cricket words, then some words the aid workers had taught me. ‘Owzat,’ I said. ‘Not out, high five, hello, goodbye, chocolate, see you, doctor, you all right, son?’
No one seemed to be understanding a word I was saying. So I tried something else, the only other English words I could think of, hopeful that maybe they would know where it was. ‘Fore Street, Mevagissey. Fore Street, Mevagissey.’
They just looked at me, bewildered.
I tried again, louder this time. ‘Mevagissey! Mevagissey! Fore Street … Four! Six!’ The numbers did it.
I saw sudden recognition on the faces all around me and some alarm too. Perhaps I had spoken too loudly, I thought. I tried the same words again, softer this time, and then a few different words to see if they would understand. ‘Football. Manchester United. Chelsea. Joe Root. England. Afghanistan.’
The more I said, the less surprised they were looking, but the more puzzled and amused they became. They were whispering amongst each other, and some were laughing. Encouraged by this I tried again, and soon they were all laughing. ‘Fore Street, Mevagissey! Chocolate! Owzat!’ They particularly seemed to love it when I said ‘owzat’. So much so they were echoing it back to me.
‘Owzat! Owzat!’
But then I noticed that the old lady was not laughing any more, not smiling either. She was standing there staring at me. I had the strange feeling that she was not just trying to work out who I was, and where I had come from, but she was trying to remember me, to remember who I was. It was as if she thought that she recognised me, which I knew was not possible. Anyway, with some difficulty, and helped by her companion, she turned away from me, and made her way along my arm, over my hand and back down on to the sand. I watched her being led across the beach to a rock not far away. There she sat down, her hands folded in her lap, looking up at me, her eyes never leaving my face.
Meanwhile, the little people, led by the children, were crowding all around me, reaching out to touch my feet, my hands, my clothes. I was being examined, investigated. Then, more confident now, they were beginning to clamber up on to me. I did not feel in the least threatened by them. I could tell they meant me no harm. It didn’t seem to be in their nature. The girls and boys amongst them were much more daring than the grown-ups, and were already all over me, shinning easily up every nook and cranny of me. I was thinking that I must have been like a mountain to them.
‘Me? A mountain?’ I laughed aloud at the thought of it. Little Omar was a mountain! Tiny was a mountain! If my friends could see me now. If Mother could see me now! Oh how I wished Mother could see me now.
Then they were pulling all the blankets off me, and rubbing me vigorously all over. I lay back and closed my eyes as the blessed warmth flooded me from the tips of my toes to the
roots of my hair. These little people were bringing me back to life.
I started to hum. Maybe it was because I was reminded of the comfort and warmth I remembered as a small boy at bedtime when Mother had held me close and sung to me. It was her song that came back to me then, her lullaby, that I found myself humming.
After a while they began to hum along with me, and I loved that. I knew then for sure that I was amongst friends, and safe at last. Exhaustion and relief, the rhythm of the waves lapping on the beach and the sound of Mother’s tune in my head must have been enough to send me off to sleep again.
But I did not sleep for long. I felt my eyelids being prised open. The children had decided to wake me. I woke to find hundreds of these little people crawling all over me. Some were doing handstands and backf lips, some had taken to tumbling off me for fun, and then climbing back up again.
Down the beach I saw that the old woman was still sitting on her rock, her companion beside her. A few others were gathering around her, and kept glancing back up at me as she was talking to them.
After some time the old lady at last got to her feet and began to walk up the beach towards me, her companion holding her elbow to steady her as she came. The children were called away. They jumped down off me, some of them reluctantly, and were soon standing in amongst the grown-ups, quietened down and waiting. I felt something important was about to happen.
I raised myself up on to my elbows. A silence had fallen over the beach. They were all looking expectantly at the old lady now, as I was too. For long moments she said nothing. Then, as she came closer, I saw that there were tears in her eyes, and I could see now that they were tears of recognition.
‘Gulliver,’ she said softly, pointing her stick up at me. Then louder, and louder, ‘Gulliver?’ she cried. ‘Gulliver?’
What ‘Gulliver’ meant I had no idea. Not then, anyway.
But from the way the old lady was talking and the way she was looking at me, the way they were all looking at me, I had the distinct feeling that I really was being welcomed home, as if I was some long-lost relative. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that was who they believed I was. I must be ‘Gulliver’ – I was someone they all already knew and loved.
‘Gulliver! Gulliver!’
They were all shouting it out now, chanting it. I was some kind of a hero to these little people, to the children especially. Who they thought I was I could not imagine, nor did that bother me at all. I was quite happy to bask in such a joyous welcome. I responded by lifting my hands in the air and waving to them, which caused them to cheer and shout even louder. And then in amongst the chants of ‘Gulliver! Gulliver!’ I began to hear ‘Welcome, Gulliver. Owzat! Owzat!’
The more they chanted, the more I was sure they were using English words, spoken differently maybe, but definitely English words. It was the language of cricket, the language of aid workers in the camp. So, getting to my feet – and I was still unsteady at first – I raised my arms again and chanted back at them, ‘Gulliver! Gulliver! Owzat! Owzat!’
And then I thought of another word the aid workers in the refugee camp had taught me. ‘Hello!’ I shouted back. ‘Hello!’
I could tell from the delight on their faces that this was a word they knew, that they recognised, an English word. So this had to be England! And if I was in England, then Uncle Said and his café might not be far away. Mevagissey was not far away.
These people may be little, I thought, and all the doctors and aid workers I had known had been giants compared to them. But you could have ordinary-sized people and tiny people living in England, in the same country, couldn’t you? Why not? I told myself. I had arrived! I was safe and I was in England, where Mother had promised we would be. I had only to wait for her here, as she had said. Mother had been right about something else too. These English people were smiling people, welcoming people.
I was filled with relief, bursting with happiness. I punched the air again and again and cried out, ‘Owzat! Owzat!’
The tiny people were joining in, echoing every word. ‘Fore Street! Mevagissey! Four! Six! Not out! High five!’
Whenever I shouted out, punching the air, the name they had given me – ‘Gulliver! Gulliver!’ – they went wild. And they went wilder still when I began chanting ‘Owzat! Owzat!’
But then I noticed that the old lady was not joining in all this excitement. She was sitting there on her rock, looking up at me, her brow furrowed. She got to her feet then, and began to walk towards me, on the arm of her companion. I crouched down to be closer to her, holding out my hand in friendship. I was worried I had angered her somehow, and wanted to make it up to her.
She said nothing for a while, but was looking at me long and hard. Then she reached out and took my finger, gently drawing my hand towards her, so that she and her companion could step up on to it. Once they were balanced, I lifted them up very carefully, keeping my hand steady, so that they would not fall over. We were face to face now. The crowd had fallen quite silent.
The old lady and her companion were standing side by side in the palm of my hand. There was no fear in their eyes, only intense curiosity. Beckoning me closer she reached out her hand to touch my face. Then she was brushing the hair away from my forehead. A sudden smile came over her.
‘Not Gulliver,’ she said softly. ‘Son of Gulliver.’ Then she turned and proclaimed it out loud to the crowd. ‘Son of Gulliver! He is Son of Gulliver!’
There was a gasp of amazement at this, from all around. So now I was a son of this Gulliver. And I knew what ‘son’ meant. One of the aid workers in the refugee camp – Jimbo he was called – had shown me photographs on his phone of a boy about my age, obviously his son, holding a cricket bat – he liked cricket too, and Jimbo was the one who used to call me ‘son’. ‘Hello, son,’ he’d say to me sometimes. ‘You all right, son?’
So now I was ‘Son of Gulliver’. I could think of nothing else to do but look as pleased as the old lady was, as her companion was, as everyone seemed to be. I called out, ‘Son of Gulliver! Son of Gulliver! Owzat!’
The old lady seemed happy with that. They all were, so I thought I must have said the right thing.
From then on, that’s who I was to these people, ‘Son of Gulliver!’ But the children usually preferred to call me Owzat. I still did not understand who Gulliver was, nor why I should be his son. That, and everything else about this strange place, which had to be England – I was sure of it by now – was still a complete mystery to me. But I did not mind this, nor how confusing and strange everything was.
Another confusion was the language they spoke. I had already heard many of them speaking amongst themselves in another language that did not sound at all like English. So they must speak in two languages. Strange again, but what did it matter? All I knew was that I was amongst people who were kind, and I was safe. What else could matter?
But something else did matter. I was suddenly feeling weak with hunger and I was dying of thirst.
It was as if the old lady could read my mind. At that very moment she clapped her hands, and at once everyone seemed to know exactly what to do. Within moments they were all fetching and carrying, all the horses and carts on the beach were on the move, and the little people, children too, were busily unloading them.
They reminded me of the armies of ants on the march that I had often watched back home in my town. Every one of these little people seemed to have a task to do, and they all understood their part in it.
The task, I was very pleased to see, was to bring me all the food and water I could ever have wanted.
Once I had lowered the old lady and her companion down on to the sand again, I watched as the little people brought me fish and bread and grapes and nuts, all I could eat, and some berries and then some water, which came in barrels too. A barrel of water was no more than a mouthful to me, but there were lots of barrels, and they kept coming, and I kept drinking.
They came and laid at my feet all the food and drink I n
eeded. And I needed a great deal. They never once tired and every one of them would say something in greeting as they presented me with yet another gift of some fish or a grape or a barrel of water. ‘Hello, Son of Gulliver,’ or ‘Owzat!’ or ‘Welcome.’
I saw such a kindness and open-hearted generosity in their eyes. I could not help thinking what a difference this was from the other world I had left behind me, from the world of suffering, and sadness, from the ruined town that had once been my home, from the family and friends I had lost, from the sprawling refugee camp where we had to live. How strange it was to be surrounded now by all this warmth and loving care and attention. How I wished Mother and Hanan and Father could be here with me to see how good and kind people could be.
I thought then of Mother standing there on the shore watching me leave in that overcrowded boat, and my mind went back to the terrible journey across the sea, the fear that had gripped my heart, the cold in my bones, the endless skies, the endless sea, the frantic efforts we had made to save ourselves, to bail that water out from the bottom of the boat, cupping our frozen hands and scooping out what we could, but watching helpless and, as the waves came again over the side, how the boat had sunk lower and lower into the water, and how one by one the others who had been with me were no longer there, how I had been left on my own, lying in the cold of the water for days and nights on end praying to be saved, calling out for Mother, and keeping her last words in my head, the words she told me never to forget, ‘Fore Street, Mevagissey’.
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