Returning home

  Sometimes I dream of that old house, the clear cold brook down in the valley, and the fun we used to have there. That life is now gone, a distant memory of happiness.

  The sun rises early, rays of light dancing like soft fingers across my face. It is a bright mid-Summer morning and its calmness belies the dire urgency of our situation. They had come from abroad and taken us captive; we had escaped and must find our way home. I have a plan. I will explain this to my brothers. The younger ones among them will not understand, but they will never the less come with us.
  So we eat our meagre rations and start on the long trip south. We know it will be dangerous, but we are determined to return. Below us, there is a wide valley, planted fields on our side, open grazing and forest on the other with a raging torrent separating the two.
  We are careful, walking cautiously in single file along a field of maize. I think we see him first, perhaps a hundred yards away. I motion my companions to crouch down and we creep into the maize. He has not seen us. We move slowly, watching as we pass. He is facing away from us, pulling something out of his pocket. Then he turns and looks directly at us. I stop, frozen to the ground, uncertain of what to do.
  “Stop,” he shouts. “Stop there. I can see you.” But we do not stop. We run out of the maize and down the valley as fast as we can. I look back, worried he is following us. But he has stopped, phone to ear, looking in our direction. Now they know we are here. We must move quickly.
  The next couple of hours pass uneventfully, and we start to forget the urgency of our situation. The sun is beating on our faces, and by late morning we arrive at the river. We stand in awe, imagining how the force of white water would smash our bodies against the rocks if it could.
  “Be quick, find a good place to cross and be careful,” I urge, suddenly worried we may be cornered with no place to cross. “Here,” I motion towards a series of stones, protruding from the wild raging water. “I think we can make it.”
  I cross first, almost losing my footing on the first stone. I warn the others, and they cross too, one at a time. We continue our trek up the pastureland, using cover wherever possible, crawling along a wall or dashing from one bush to the next until we reach the tree-line. The forest is too thick to penetrate, so we walk below it until we find a path. As we enter, the air becomes cold and our surroundings dark. After a while, we approach a clearing and everything becomes strangely still. The wind has stopped. There is no birdsong. And then the silence is broken. Two wild dogs rush out of the undergrowth and charge towards us, their white coats shining in the sun.
  “Don’t move,” I say. “Crouch down, make yourselves smaller.” And we do, we huddle together. The wild animals stop, perhaps confused, but then start to move closer. I can see the whites of their eyes now, hear the panting of their breath, see their sharp teeth, saliva dripping from the corners of their mouths. I carefully reach out my hand and pick up a stick; moving it back over my shoulder, I throw it as far as I can. The dogs bark, turn and pelt towards it.
  “Quick, let’s go,” I say and we run as fast as we can through the wood and out over a wall, across a field and on to an old house. As we approach, a woman covered in white dust walks out. As if expecting us, she smiles.
  “Come in she says. You’re just in time. The bread is freshly baked.” We follow her and sit down at a large kitchen table, on which there is jam and a large bowl of butter, soon joined by slices of hot steaming toast. Two white dogs come in, panting and start playing by our feet under the table.
  “Now, what’s this I hear from Mr. Jones about you ruining his maize?” my Mum asks, accusingly.

  A memory of a past life, as vivid now as it ever was.