200628.4-BK 1 The EGG
Book 1 - The Egg
Book 2 - The Caterpillar
Book 3 - The Chrysalis
Book 4 - The Butterfly
Book 1
The Egg
The Dream
I can see his eyes.
I always do.
Big sad and white.
Maybe his eyes are smiling at me.
I can’t tell.
I can see other faces.
But I can’t see them properly.
Because it’s night-time and I’m flying.
And they are flying too.
Then the faces disappear.
They hide in the night.
His eyes are the last thing I see.
I can not wave.
Because I need my arms to fly.
I say goodbye with my eyes.
I think his eyes are saying goodbye to me too.
Then, just like always.
I hear a sound…
The eyelashes of a young eight-year-old boy part, revealing raven-black irises. They reflect the white clouds above. He twiddles a length of grass between his teeth as he squints into the sky.
They tell me what I see isn’t real.
Maybe they are right.
Because whenever I open my eyes.
I am still on the ground.
And they are still up there.
A thudding, repetitive beat.
It’s becoming louder.
The Boy jumps to his feet. Toes poke out from re-stitched leather sandals. Old faded jeans finish before his ankles. A worn white shirt, is buttoned up to the collar. The frayed holes of the shirt are hidden behind a dark grey waistcoat that is embroidered with pale grey flowers. Pieces of flatbread protrude from pockets on either side of his jacket.
He yells to his goats.
“There they are!”
Flying in a perfect V-formation, a group of white geese are heading directly towards him. The words of their call becoming louder and louder. They fly in low, long necks reaching forwards, legs swept back tight under their bellies, their wings pump the air with graceful power.
The boy waves with both arms.
“You’re back!”
The lead goose winks at him.
He tries to wink back but closing both eyes, blinks.
He spins around as they pass overhead, entranced by the beauty of their symmetry and their majestic grace. The determination to get where they are going. Filled with awe he watches the Geese who like a white arrow, they slice their way through the lapis blue sky of North Africa. As the arrowhead becomes smaller and smaller and the call of the birds fades like an echo without a wall.
One day I’ll be like the geese.
I’ll fly through the clouds.
Over the land.
And over the sea!
The sun is low in the sky to his left. On a clear day, he can often catch the smallest glint of the sea between the horizon and the sky. To his right, the distant snow topped Atlas Mountains are clear enough that sometimes he feels he could reach out and touch them.
The monotonous maracas of the cicadas breaking the near silence of the rock-strewn grasslands, only the punctured by the odd bleat of a goat.
With the birds gone, he sighs and turns to check on his charges. Each goat is coloured differently. Every shade of brown. Greys and blacks. All randomly mixed with patches of dirty white. Some have short hair, whilst others are lumbered with knotted dreadlocks that drag along the ground picking up small sticks and debris.
The sun has started to melt into the horizon, A signal. Quickly counting the goats on his fingers the boy whistles a command. Instinctively, the goats gather together and set off at a good pace. Bringing up the rear of the flock, the Boy waves his stick, threatening those slowest.
Ahead, the terrain barely tamed by the odd dry-stone wall stretches out in front of them towards the crest of the tallest hill. Perched at the highest point an imposing building glows golden, soaked with the amber rays of the setting sun.
A shadow reaches over the land and dims the structure.
The Boy sniffs the air and turns to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon to the south. A storm is brewing and coming in fast. Whistling with renewed energy, he urges the goats onwards and upwards towards the hilltop structure.
A thunderclap announces the shepherd and his goat's arrival, the tall walls many metres high, towering above him. The ground shakes. The Boy looks back. A tremendous view. Although suffocated by plump and arrogant black clouds, the last of the sun's rays shine courageously as she gives up the battle of providing light and retreats below the horizon. Night is chasing fast on the heels of the storm.
The uniform walls of this majestic building seem to have no end. He hurries the goats along the structure’s perimeter until he finds what he is looking for. A small, almost hidden entrance. Using all his might, he heaves against the solid oak door. It opens noisily, creaking on its old handmade hinges. He yelps at the goats with urgency. The goats jostle and push each other, all trying to get through the gap in an instant. The Boy uses his back to inch the heavy door shut, separating the wild fury of nature from this man-made inner sanctum. Four short walls have been topped by corrugated iron making a rook. A smaller roughly made wooden door which hangs on a single hinge, crooked and loose, guards its entrance. Compared to the main door, it opens with ease and the Boy guides his goats into their shelter. Lifting the door to close it, he forces a small stick into the wall wedging the door shut.
Although the outer walls stand proud, the interior is a ruin. Many of the smaller buildings within the fortified walls have collapsed and now sit as piles of rubble. A few structures still stand. Their brightly painted doors betraying the presence of those who live amongst these memories of ancient grandeur.
This was once an ancient Kasbah. Built by the most powerful landowners who controlled the surrounding lands and people from within these fortified walls. Time took its toll on the fortunes of these wealthy lords who left long ago, leaving behind rumours of lost gold guarded by the fierce spirits of those long dead. For generations, the local villagers have kept their distance for fear of the Kasbah’s curse. The only people that dare enter the building’s perimeter are those so poor, that the fear of dying from hunger or the cold, is more worrying than the fear of ghosts, and they have converted what is left standing into their home. Families who live amongst the fallen inner walls and rubble have had children, who in turn have had children, each generation living out the same lives as their ancestors. Families who call the old ruined Kasbah home and whose children know no different.
The sun has dipped below the horizon. Purple and black clouds fill the sky. The first raindrops tap on the shelters rusted corrugated iron roof.
The Boy watches the curved edges of the corrugated roof expectantly. He takes off his waistcoat and then his shirt.
The excited voices of two young girls call out in unison.
“Mo-Mo?”
That’s my twin sisters.
They say I’m full of surprises.
My name is Mo.
I don’t know why.
Everyone says my name twice.
The girls shout his name louder.
“MoMo!?”
MoMo ignores the calls. He’s watching the first drops gather on the edge of each corrugated trough, swelling like ripe olives until they are ready to fall. He steps forwards, just slightly, so they land on his face. The cool water feels fresh, soothing his sun-dried skin.
The worried voice of an old lady pierces the looming darkness.
“Mo-Mo?”
That’s my Grandma.
She says I’m full of promises.
Thunder shakes the ground. Flashes of lightning illuminate the Kasb
ah and surrounding hills. Water cascades off the roof.
Standing under the spouts of water, he washes his face clean of the day’s dust and grime.
Torrential rains hammer the iron roof sounding like a thousand drummers. Under the makeshift shower, he dances in time to the beat.
Maybe they say my name.
For each time I surprise them?
A second door opens, barely a few feet from him. The warm glow of candlelight spills from an inner room—the voice of an annoyed woman.
“MoMo.”
That’s my Mother.
She likes to say my name lots of times.
His Mother screams into the darkness.
“MoMo!”
Entranced by the water, he turns, letting it run all over his body.
A little while ago.
I told Mama that one day I will fly.
She shook her head.
She said my name so many times that I lost count.
His Mother rolls her sleeves up, revealing strong forearms.
One day.
When I learn.
Like the birds.
Like the geese.
When my promise becomes true.
I will surprise everyone so much.
I think they will call me.
MoMo-MoMo-MoMo.
His Mother reaches into the dark guessing where her hands might find him.
The Boy tilts his head back and opens his mouth, letting the water run in.
Mother finds her grip on the waistband of his trousers and drags the drenched Boy inside, sheltering him from the rain and all things of the night.
“MoMo… if I’ve told you once! I’ve told you a….”
The rest of her words are smothered by the sound of the door slamming shut.
Outside, a lone black raven is perched on the upper Kasbah walls. He peers down, tilting his head to one side. Listening and wondering if the Boy will come back out. He moves his weight from one leg to the other. Realising there is nothing left to see, he steps off the wall, opens his wings, and soars high vanishing into the jet black of the stormy night sky.
A Promise
The Kasbah’s cockerel crows, relieved that after such a big storm, the sun is indeed again rising.
Grandma teaches me everything.
Grandma even taught me how to whistle to birds.
If you do it right.
They whistle back.
MoMo stands in a poorly lit room with no windows. Narrow beams of light creep in through gaps in the wooden door, causing the uneven stone walls that have been smoothed with dried mud to become mottled with highlights and shadows.
“But why should I go, Grandma?”
A shaft of sunlight catches the profile of MoMo’s Grandma. A face carved by lines of a thousand smiles. Her eyes are soft, yet have a quality that demands respect. Although the climate is warm, she wears woollens under an embroidered white apron. Heavily darned stockings reach down her swollen legs to her slippers. Peering through scuffed glasses, she struggles to focus on her fingertips as she buttons up MoMo’s shirt.
“You’re a very lucky boy, MoMo.”
“But you didn’t go, Grandma?”
“When I was a child few did. No-one in our family has ever gone. And girls never go.”
Grandma fights with MoMo’s top button. She stands back and tries to survey him in the dim light.
“Outside with you, so we can see you.”
She swings the door open, the rich blue paint standing vivid against the natural ochre of the ruin's interior.
From the darkness of the room, Grandma and MoMo step out into the bright early morning.
He grins sheepishly at his Mother.
Sleeves rolled up above her elbows, she stands with arms crossed with the semi-defiance of uncertainty.
Attached to her left leg is Zehra.
Hiding behind her right leg is Salma.
His five-year-old twin sisters giggle at the site of their older brother. They have never seen him like this before.
His Father, a thin yet muscled man of the land, stares in silence, a hoe in hand.
Unable to contain herself any longer, Mother opens her arms and exclaims.
“MoMo! You look so... I’m so proud of you.”
MoMo is splendid in a dazzling white school uniform.
Both women notice that his buttons are done up out of order.
They both step forwards.
Grandma gets to him first.
“Let me…”
Mother is close behind.
“No, let me…”
Both women work in tandem at his shirt’s buttons.
Grandma beams with pride as she tucks in some loose fabric.
“I will need to stitch a tuck, then it will fit him perfectly. We’ve got a few days before school starts.”
Mother nods happily.
MoMo catches her eye.
“Did you go to school, Mama?”
She sighs.
Creases appear on MoMo's forehead.
“Well, why should I go?”
She smooths a crease in his shirt.
“So you learn things.”
“What kind of things?”
Grandma pushes the glasses back on her nose.
“Things that you don’t know.”
She takes MoMo’s face with both hands so she can see into his eyes.
“Things that I don’t know.”
“But you know everything, Grandma?”
Grandma puffs her cheeks out.
“Sadly. There are many things I should know. That I don’t.”
The skin on MoMo’s forehead wrinkles again.
Grandma’s thin wire glasses slide down her nose slightly, and she nudges them back up. She widens her eyes at him.
“I don’t even know what I don’t know.”
She turns MoMo’s shoulders so that she can inspect the rear of his shirt.
“I know that the sun goes up.”
She keeps turning MoMo until they are again eye to eye.
“And then the sun comes down. And in between, we have to work as hard as we can.”
Grandma tuts as she fumbles with another button.
“At your school. They will teach you a thousand more things than I have ever taught you.”
MoMo’s eyes widen.
“Really?”
Grandma nods.
“Yes. One week from now. You’ll be a new boy. ”
MoMo looks alarmed.
Grandma laughs.
“The same Boy. Just a bigger boy!”
Using the knuckles of two fingers, she pinches his cheek gently.
“You’re full of promise. I expect big things from such a big boy.”
He likes it when she does this. He knows it’s a good sign.
“Alright, Grandma. I promise. I’ll learn one thousand things.”
“Good, because then, when you’re a really big boy. You can do what you want.”
Mother and Father exchange nervous looks.
MoMo is so excited he can barely stand still.
“I’m going to learn really fast. Because I’ll know how to make an arrow.”
Mother and Father exchange confused looks.
Mother leans forward dusting his shirt down.
“Why an arrow? When you’re a big boy, you can use your Father’s gun.”
“I don’t want to shoot anything. I want to make an arrow like the geese.”
Mother lets out a huge sigh.
Grandma hides her smile behind her hand.
Father, without moving any other muscle in his body, narrows his eyes.
Goats
The goats fight to get out through the Kasbah’s door.
He closes the door behind him and announces to them.
“In a week I’m going to school. I’m going to learn a thousand things. Today I’m going to teach you one thing.”
The goats bleat nervously.
“I want you to walk in two lines.”
MoMo turns and heads off into the scrubland.
“Follow me!”
Sneaking a glance over his shoulder, he can see the goats haven’t moved.
He turns to face them, stretching out both arms walks backwards.
“Follow me in two lines!”
The goats check to see if the others can work out whats going on. Confused they stay rooted to the ground.
MoMo makes a clicking sound with his tongue. The goats know this sound but are totally baffled.
Shaking his head MoMo runs around to rear of them and lifts his stick.
The Goats set off at a pace.
He throws a stone to their left, then one to their right guiding them forwards.
Goats don’t understand words.
They understand sticks and stones.
And foxes.
I try to teach them.
But Grandma says.
You can’t teach old goats new tricks.
Duck
The Kasbah is bathed in the soft sunlight of an early spring day. Swallows and swifts swoop around the old crumbling walls, emitting an excited crescendo of chirps as they feed on the early morning insects.
I like the noise the swallows make.
If I listen really closely.
It sounds like they are calling my name.
MoMo, crouching low on his haunches, is trying to catch his breath. He is sitting beside a white, lanky, long-necked Indian Running Duck. Unlike normal ducks, these ducks stand upright, and with their long necks can spot trouble coming from afar. They can’t fly, but they can run.
The Boy and the duck wistfully watch the birds zipping around the skies overhead.
Breathing easily now, MoMo gathers his energy.
“Shall we try again then?”
“Quack!”
Some people think Duck can speak to me.
She can’t.
She can only say ‘quack’ which means ‘yes.’
And ‘quack-quack’ which means ‘no’.
MoMo stands up and raises his arms like wings.
Duck lifts herself off the ground revealing short legs and webbed feet. She waddles from side to side expectantly.