It sounded cruel to me. Only a yak!
I clambered out of the ditch and ran into the field. There
were huge craters where the shells had landed, as if
a giant hand had clawed out the earth. The yak lay on the
edge of one crater. It was still. Beneath it was a growing
pool of blood. I had never felt so sad as I did then, looking
at that poor, gentle creature, now dead. I looked up at the
mountains that had always seemed friendly. Hiding in their
folds were men who had so casually destroyed my whole
world. What harm had we ever done to them?
I heard footsteps. It was a soldier, tall and strong. With
a beard and a black turban. His rifle was slung across his
shoulder. He looked fierce, but when he spoke, his voice
was not unkind. "Your mother is waiting. It is not safe for
you to be here. We will give you a ride to town." Then he
saw the dead yak. "Your friend?"
I nodded glumly.
Bending down, he took the little brass bell off the neck.
"Keep this," he said gently, "to remind you of your friend."
He lifted me across his shoulder and walked back.
We reached the camp without any mishap. The first
person I spotted was Sadiq Ali.
"So you have made it," he said in his cool, precise voice.
"School starts tomorrow."
"But we don't have a schoolhouse!" I protested.
"We do," he grinned, pointing at a big, shady tree. "Class
begins at 9 a.m."
Since then, we have been living in a tent. It is crowded
but cosy. Abba and Usman have joined us. So have old
Suleiman and Amina. The winter has come and gone.
Abba went to see our house recently. "We will have to
build a new one," he said. "But the apricot tree is fine, it is
in bloom.