The Ink Bridge (15 page)

Why have you not called for me, Omed? I have been waiting
all this time. Look how my children have grown.

He was used to hearing voices, but there was a clarity in this one that drew him closer. Eventually, he could see the outline of a woman, her hair bound to her head like a hank of seaweed. In the dark folds of her skirts, the faces of two children appeared. They were the colour of wet paper, a storm-cursed ocean.

I have a message from the Poet, Omed. He asks, ‘Have you
given up on freedom?'

He had not heard from the Poet in a while.
Tell me, what
is freedom?
Omed asked.

She smiled and small fish glimmered between her gums.
Freedom is many things to many people. You have to find your
own meaning. For your poet it was the waves that reached
the sky.

Omed slapped the water.
Waves mean death! I am free
now. I am free from worry and fear. I am safe within this world.

You call what you have freedom, but it enslaves you,
she said.
You are not the master of this world that you have built.
You are trapped. You have built a wall when you could have
built a bridge.

Then what is freedom? You must give me an answer.

It is a right. Freedom is an idea that you must make real.
You must allow it into your life.

That is easy for you to say,
snarled Omed.

The mother rolled onto her back, her children under her arms. Omed looked into their eyes – dark, shiny like mussel shells; impenetrable.

And then in the mother's eyes he saw a tiny image of his own mother, cooking and cleaning, and carrying wood for the fire. And at night, the house lit by candles, his mother stitching their torn clothes. He saw her clasping the photo of her husband to her chest as she watched her children sleep. He saw the faces of refugees trapped below decks on the boat bound for Sumatra. He saw Puravi, his willingness to suffer for the gift of new life. His bright steps, surefooted as a horse, below the sky bridge in Kuala Lumpur. And finally, Omed saw his own father pecking words onto the page with his ancient typewriter. All those handwritten ‘e's. All those people pushing forward even though the way was hard.

‘Morning, Omed,' said the guard as he pulled out a chair and leaned on the back with his two big hands. ‘They're offering packages for you blokes to go back home. Looks like things are improving in Afghanistan. The good guys are winning again.' The guard smiled and patted Omed on the arm. A month ago, Omed would have flinched at this contact, but he had gradually made his peace with the living and forced his mind back into some kind of order.

But he didn't know what to feel about this news. That the Taliban had fallen was a great thing, but how long would peace last in a country that has lived by war for years? The Talibs could outlast the Americans.

The Afghans in the Centre watched and listened to the story as it bloomed like a flower. The media reported that the new government was bringing peace to their country. The Taliban were finished. The country was going to enter a new time of peace and prosperity.

The Australian government offered money and a one-way ticket to Kabul. There would be planes instead of leaky boats. Everyone would go back to their villages like kings with presents and smiles. The country was safe, they were saved.

But the news that arrived by telephone – straight from the towns of Afghanistan – was different. The country was in chaos. Warlords ruled in remote areas. The Taliban were like wounded dogs, more dangerous than ever.

Omed would sometimes talk with the Water Mother and her children. They were different to his parents whom his mind, in its sickness, had called to bear witness to its collapse. These spirits were real.

As Omed cleared toothpaste from the sink she whispered,
Remember freedom, Omed. It is up to you. You owe it to your
family to find a better life, to be strong and never give up.
They have suffered to give you this chance, do not waste it.

One day a tail of dust whipped across the desert. At the head of this storm were cars and vans.

The guards were assembled in blue overalls and black caps. Jim Parasole stood in the deep shade, watching, his faded blue eyes darting between his forces and the dangerous others. People, with cardboard signs and bright clothes, spilled from cars. They waved flags and shouted. After months of white walls and blue uniforms, spring had arrived.

They climbed the outside fences. The guards stared at each other and shouted into their radios. Mr Parasole pulled off his hat and held it in front of his chest like a shield.

Refugees climbed onto roofs, burning themselves on the hot metal as they scrambled up. Sweat pearled on the faces of the guards as they pulled on helmets.

A group of protesters tied ropes and chains to the fences and started their cars. Bars flew out leaving gaps big enough to squeeze through. The refugees tried to scale the inside fence, but guards tore at their legs and brought them screaming to the ground. But soon there were too many and one man made it across the razor wire and through the outside fence. Then another. Then six, then twenty. The crowd enveloped them.

The refugees were made bold by the promise of escape. Many were cut badly by razor wire, bruised and broken by the batons of the guards. But still they climbed and jumped.

Omed saw his chance and clambered onto a roof. From there he leapt to the high rail of the inside fence. The razor wire sliced at him as he slid his body through. He could see the gap in the outside fence, imagined himself there. A hand reached up for him and the tips of fingers brushed his leg.

He felt himself being drawn back. The tiny knives on the razor wire dragged through his flesh. His face scraped the metal bars as he fell. The guards were frenzied – scared and excited by the riot and the escapes. With one cheek in the dirt, Omed stared across the ground at helmeted men on horseback forcing the protesters away from the fence. He buried his face in the dust and wept.

Someone kicked him and he drew his legs to his stomach for protection. A baton wavered in the air and the guard gritted his teeth. Omed closed his eyes, but the pain didn't come. He opened them again and saw a second guard with his hand wrapped around the baton.

‘Leave him,' he said. ‘Can't you see he's already beat?'

It was the man who had given him the news that Afghanistan was once again safe.

As summer began, many people began starving themselves. It grew hotter, but they refused even water. Some were children.

And then there was another chance at escape. In the black before dawn – a time when the silence was the worst – Omed was shaken awake.

A voice whispered in his ear, ‘They have come again. Go outside. I must tell the others.'

Omed blinked at the darkness as the shadow slipped out of his room.

He crept from his cabin into the night air. The desert sky was filled with stars. He could see the Southern Cross, low on the horizon. There were shouts outside the fence. Men's voices. They howled into the clear air and the noise echoed through the steel valleys of the Centre.

A man was pressed against an outer building. Omed joined him and strained his eyes into the dark. There was a silhouette of a car, smudges of people and the crunching of doors opening and closing.

‘They are drunk,' a man said, chuckling. Omed recognised the Iraqi who had escaped during the spring protest. One of those that had been captured and returned, with his head bowed, to the Management Unit.

‘You are wondering why they are here, no?' he said. ‘Well, I think it is a good place to be drunk. No one to complain – just kangaroos, wild dogs and us dead souls.'

They both tilted their ears to catch the noises. A car barked into life, its headlights spearing into the desert. Behind it, in the red eyes of its tail-lights, a fog-bank of dust grew. Then came the tearing of metal.

‘Quick!' said the man. ‘They have broken the fences.'

They moved towards the steel and razor wire. Already there was a group of guards trying to protect the hole in the outside fence. One of them was trying to tug a blanket from the inside fence where refugees were pulling themselves over. On the outside, the car was already flying into the night.

‘This way,' said Omed's new friend.

They moved to a patch of darkness where the searchlights couldn't reach. From there they eased along the fence until they were next to the battle. Every now and then a black figure would cut free from the blur of fists and feet and a torch would trace its path into the black desert.

‘Now!' said Omed's friend and pulled him towards the fence. Batons came down like thunder, blood gushed, torch beams swept across metal and into the low bushes, footsteps thumped on the ground, his heart surged inside him. He tripped, stars whirling to the earth, sand pouring into the sky. The dark figure of a guard moved towards him and he knew it was over again.

The guard stood above him – a black tower. He smelled of aftershave, chewing gum and soap. His torch blinded Omed and he shielded his eyes.

Then the guard swung his light towards the inside fence, through the gap in the outside fence and into the desert.

‘Go,' he said. ‘Before I change my mind.'

The searchlight swept over them and Omed saw for a second that it was the guard who had saved him once before. He stood and held out his hand for the man to shake.

‘Go!' he screamed.

Omed turned to run, but only got a few paces when a voice exploded from near the fence. ‘Stop him!'

The lights hit him as he clambered up and over the blanket-covered razor wire. He got past the guards on the outside fence and ran into the bushes. The branches scratched at his arms, but he kept running. He fell over, got up, ran again. His breath burned like boiling water. A hand grabbed at his arm, swung him off his feet. It pulled him into a hollow – a collapsed burrow.

‘You run like a bullock in a wheat field,' the voice whispered in Dari.

Omed knew at once who it was. That he could be so cursed to have escaped only to find himself with this man.

‘It seems once again we are to travel together.' The Snake leant back on his elbows and sucked in the night. ‘Can you taste the freedom in the air?'

Omed jumped to his feet, but the Snake caught him at the elbow and jarred him to the ground.

‘Are you mad?' he hissed. ‘They have lights. Soon there will be dogs. We need to keep low, travel quietly by night. I am a smuggler, it is my work. My family has done this business for centuries. Yet again, you will need me.

‘I saw you reading the star book. You must know these skies. If you know the skies then you will know the land. And so I need you. It is much like old times.'

Omed struggled in the Snake's grip.

‘Use your head, boy. We can travel together to the city. From there we can be rid of each other. It is a business arrangement. Nothing more. I am not asking you to like me.'