200628.4-BK 1 The EGG Read online

  “Ready… steady…”

  “Quack!”

  Duck sets off running making a beeline for the other side of the Kasbah. Her long body upright, head held high, beak in the air. Her legs move so fast they are a blur.

  MoMo calls out.

  “Cheat! I hadn’t said go yet!”

  “Quack-quack!”

  “Yes, you are!”

  MoMo races after Duck.

  She has made a good start and is already halfway towards the far inner wall of the Kasbah.

  Lengthening his stride, MoMo picks up speed.

  Duck turns to see he’s close behind. Her legs power down and rotate so fast they become invisible.

  MoMo flaps his arms.

  He passes Duck and with a yell of glee lunges forwards, gliding momentarily before crash landing into the soft grasses. Panting, he turns onto his back so he can breathe more easily.

  “I won!”

  Duck reaches him and circles once before collapsing next to him, exhausted.

  Gasping for air MoMo smiles.

  “One day. We will learn to fly.”

  Duck tilts her head.

  “Quack. Quack-quack.”

  MoMo sits up and looks at her with disappointment.

  Oh, and Duck... she can also say ‘maybe’.

  Chickens

  Struts of broken wood, loosely bound by unravelling wire, fence in a worn patch of ground where several chickens of various shades and size, peck at the floor.

  Grandma says.

  I should copy the good things I see.

  And I should not copy the bad things I see.

  MoMo quietly enters the enclosure.

  Duck watches from outside. She tilts her head.

  He puts his fingers to his lips.

  “Shush.”

  Tiptoeing forwards he uses a stick to scratch a long line into the dirt of the chicken pen’s floor. Masking an eye with his hand, he looks down the line to see if it’s straight. Satisfied, he slowly etches another long mark and stands back to admire his handy-work.

  A large ‘V’ shape.

  Gently clasping a chicken’s wings to her side, he picks her up and places her where the two lines touch. He doesn’t let go until sensing her relax. He repeats the procedure, carefully placing the next bird on the ‘V’.

  As he turns to pick up a third chicken, the first bird rises back onto her feet and struts away. The second, clucking indignantly follows the first.

  MoMo takes a deep breath and starts again.

  This time he accelerates his actions, picking up the chickens and placing them on the ‘V’ in quick succession.

  But the chickens jump back to their feet and strut away.

  MoMo speeds up grabbing at the chickens, plonking them on the ‘V’ one after the other.

  As soon as he lets go, they make a run for it.

  It’s a chicken chase with clucking birds circulating the penned-in area in ever-faster circles, a cloud of dust rising.

  The cockerel calls an alarm signal.

  The chickens, presuming he’s spotted a fox, panic.

  They squark and panic flying up a foot into the air before crash landing. The chickens squark in fear, not knowing where to go. They run left, then run right.

  It’s hard for MoMo to see through the dust.

  He coughs and pulls his t-shirt up to cover his mouth. A voice from within the ruins pierces the cacophony.

  “MoMo?! Is that you?”

  It’s Mother.

  MoMo freezes.

  The cockerel freezes and stops crowing. He fears Mother’s voice even more than MoMo does.

  The chickens clucking with resentment, settle down at the far end of the pen.

  The cloud of dust sinks to the floor.

  MoMo searches for his marks.

  The ‘V’ shape is gone, erased by the commotion.

  He shuts the door behind him, turns to Duck, sucks in his cheeks and raises his shoulders dismissively.

  “Chickens!”

  The Goat Boy

  MoMo checks the sun again. It hasn’t touched the horizon, so it’s not yet time to take the goats home. He watches as they happily hunt for fresh green shoots.

  Kicking a rock he watches as it jumps along the ground and spins until it runs out of energy and lies still. Picking another stone, he throws it as far as he can. It vanishes into the distant scrub, not even rewarding him with a noise.

  He swings around to see behind him. He heard something. But there is nothing to see.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulls a cartwheel.

  Having seen all of his acrobatics before, the goats munch at the coarse grasses without a glimmer of interest.

  MoMo hums a melody.

  Unable to remember the words, he makes them up.

  He moves his body to the beat, stepping back and forth.

  Choosing the nearest goat, he takes a leg in each hand lifting her to stand upright.

  MoMo steps backwards the sideways.

  The goat is forced to shuffle her feet to keep up. She bleats in protest.

  MoMo grins at her.

  “See, you can dance!”

  MoMo sings to her.

  She bleats back in annoyance.

  “Yes, I know. When I go to school, I’m going to learn the words. Then I can sing to you properly.”

  MoMo suddenly lets the goat down and swerves around.

  This time he did hear something. A laugh, or was it a giggle? He jumps onto a small boulder and scans the surrounding land. All is still.

  Raven is in the nearby tree stretching his legs, lifting himself a few inches higher. He can see everything.

  Carefully hidden, barely fifty yards away, a young girl presses herself into a half-fallen stone wall. Although she’s dressed in a ragged frock, her clothes are embroidered with small mirrors, that sparkle alongside her brass jewellery. Her jet black hair, neatly woven into long plaits, fall either side of her face. Her cheeks are rosy, and her eyes are bright from her surreptitious spying.

  The singing has stopped. She holds her hand over her mouth, stifling another giggle. In danger of being discovered, she quietly steals away following the contours of the land keeping herself out of sight.

  Just like MoMo, she knows the rises and dips of these rolling hills as well as she knows the undulations of her bare feet.

  Magic

  People say the things I see.

  Are are not real.

  They say what I see.

  Are dreams.

  And dreams are like magic

  And magic is real.

  I know.

  Because you can see it everywhere.

  MoMo and Duck wander aimlessly exploring the nooks and crannies of the Kasbah’s expansive interior. Large patches of grass fill the gaps between the borders of old construction. Piles of rocks lie randomly, giving no secrets of their history away. In other areas, walls seem to rise from bushes without reason and tease at their past purpose.

  These decaying walls cast vital shade in these lands of relentless sun and spawn life in their shadows.

  Plants that can’t survive outside the Kasbah’s walls, flourish in these pockets of shelter. Nearer the ground some plants produce berries. Others climb the walls reaching towering heights and show off their flowers to all the humans, insects and birds.

  At the base of these taller plants, MoMo teases the grasses aside. They can bear treasures for the curious. This is where insects that appear like monsters can be found. Where beetles like dinosaurs hide. The lucky might even find a mouse. MoMo bends to pick half a chalky blue eggshell that has been discarded from a nest up above. He sits down cross-legged shows it to Duck so she can see it clearly.

  “You were an egg once.”

  Duck ruffles her feathers.

  “Quack-Quack.”

  “No not this egg. It’s too small. You were a duck’s egg. Then you turned into a Duck.”

  “Quack. Quack-quack.”

  “Yes. I know you’re
different… but all birds come from an egg. And all eggs come from worms. Even you.”

  He turns to Duck.

  “A worm goes in a bird. And an egg comes out.”

  Duck looks at the eggshell more closely.

  ‘“And from inside the egg. A baby bird appears.”

  MoMo slowly turns the shell. They both imagine the young bird that pecked its way out and tumbled free into the nest.

  “A baby bird can’t fly. But then the baby bird turns into a grown-up bird. And grown-up birds can fly.”

  They both contemplate the half shell in silence.

  MoMo nods his head slowly.

  “So if worm lives under the ground. If it has no eyes and no legs. If it can turn into an egg. And if the egg can turn into a bird. And if the bird can fly into the clouds…”

  MoMo turns and looks Duck in the eye, nodding wisely.

  “…then I think anything can happen.”

  Lessons

  Today I’m going to start learning.

  A thousand things.

  Mother says not to ask too many questions.

  She says I should just listen.

  With arms folded across her chest, Mother beams as she admires her son in his school uniform.

  “Your first day at school MoMo.”

  Mother sniffs the air.

  “Is that something burning?

  She hurries off to the kitchen.

  MoMo turns his attention to Grandmother.

  “Grandma?”

  “Yes, MoMo?”

  He leans forwards and whispers.

  “When I go to school can I ask questions?”

  “Well, I think so. Like what?”

  “Where do the swallows and swifts go when they are not here?”

  Grandma pauses.

  Watching her face, MoMo grins.

  “You know. Tell me. I’ll keep it secret!”

  She shakes her head and straightens his collar.

  “No, I don’t know. See? That is why you are going to school. Because they have the answers to your questions.”

  The women usher MoMo towards the main doors, where he climbs onto his bicycle.

  Mother and Grandma catch each other’s eyes and smile.

  “Grandma?”

  Both the women turn to MoMo.

  “Do the school know why the geese fly in a ‘V’?”

  Grandma shrugs and nods.

  “I guess so.”

  “And will they teach me why the chickens…”

  Mother snaps.

  “MoMo. Be a good boy. Don’t make problems!”

  He pauses. Further long the outer walls he can see his Father with three men. Two of the men are big and have an arm each around his Father’s shoulders. Not so far from them, a portly gentleman leans on an old car. He is wearing a mustard coloured jacket.

  Noticing the Boy is watching, the men give MoMo a friendly wave.

  His Father makes a sign that MoMo should get on his way.

  MoMo is watching the man in the mustard jacket, there is something strange about him. He can’t figure out what it is.

  Grandma claps her hands together in quick succession.

  “MoMo! You promised me you’d not be late on your first day!”

  Snapped out of his daydreaming, MoMo grins.

  “I promise!”

  The un-oiled wheel squeals in complaint as he pedals away. The bicycle bounces down a rough beaten path that cuts through the sparse, scrubland dotted by the odd stunted bush and patch of succulent cacti.

  Endless lines of knee height tumbling stone walls, forgotten labour of territories long abandoned, break up one piece of the landscape’s nothingness from another.

  Behind one of these walls, a young girl stands in her blood-red dress adorned with small mirrors. She watches MoMo from amongst her grazing goats.

  MoMo slides to a halt.

  Checking that no one can see him, he waves to Aisha coyly.

  She also makes sure no-one is watching, raises an arm and waves back.

  He points to his new uniform.

  She muffles a giggle with the palm of her hand.

  MoMo grins, stands up on his pedals and forces the bike onwards. The rusty wheel yelps in protest with each rotation.

  He guides the bike around rocks and dodges dips.

  Even though out of breath, a smile spreads from cheek to cheek.

  The beaten path joins a single lane paved road. The smooth surface means he can now cycle at double the speed. His wheels are spinning so fast that the squeak now sounds like the cries of a hundred hungry swallows.

  A movement at the side of the road catches his eye. Using both feet to skid along the ground bringing the bike to a stuttering halt, he throws the cycle down and runs back up the road.

  A bird is flapping her wings in the dust.

  Enclosing her between both hands, he picks her up.

  “What happened to you?”

  Feeling the warmth and safety of his hands, the bird becomes calm, tilted her head and peers at him with one eye.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take you to school with me.”

  His Mother’s words echo in his mind.

  “MoMo. Be a good boy. No problems on your first day.”

  He looks back towards his home, a silhouette on the hill.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  Grandma’s words bounce into his mind.

  “MoMo! You promised me you’d not be late on your first day!”

  A child in full school uniform on a donkey at full canter surprises MoMo.

  Deeper in the scrubland a large rock moves. It grows bigger. It’s a man wearing a dark brown djellaba the classic Moroccan cloak. It covers the man from head to toe. Only his old and crinkled face peering out from under the shade of the pointed hood is visible.

  The old man calls to MoMo.

  “Can I be of assistance?”

  Holding the bird high above the scrub, MoMo makes his way towards the man.

  From within the hood, the friendly smile of Old Man Omar greets him.

  MoMo can barely contain himself.

  “Sir, can you help me?’ I’m late for school. It has a broken wing. And I can’t take it to school. And I don’t have time to go home. Can you look after it for me? Until I come back? I promise. I’ll…”

  Old Man Omar leans close, eyes glistening and cuts MoMo short.

  “Let me see.”

  He parts the Boy's fingers soothingly and takes the creature. The fingers of one hand gently curl under the tiny body, while his thumb strokes the bird’s head. A wing in hand, he unfurls the feathers like a fan. He closes the wing and swapping the bird to his other hand, inspects the other wing.

  Old Man Omar beams.

  “It hasn’t broken anything. This is a swift. Their wings are too big and their legs too weak to lift themselves.”

  He teases one of the birds small clawed legs out to show MoMo.

  “See how small their legs are? If they land on the ground, they can’t take off again.”

  As Old Man Omar looks up, MoMo follows his gaze to the sky filled with other swifts.

  “These birds live and sleep on the wing. They build their homes high, so they just step out of the nest and be airborne.”

  Above, the swifts dart back and forth.

  “When one lands like this. And gets stuck on the ground. What you have to do, is…”

  He tensions his arm back.

  MoMo gasps but it’s too late.

  Old Man Omar swings his arm down, and then up and opening his palm launching the bird skywards. The swift rises high, then pauses for a what seems like a second, before falling like a rock.

  MoMo screams.

  As if hearing the cry, the swift opens her wings, unsteadily for a second, then swoops up and away joining the other birds.

  MoMo’s face mutates from horror to delight.

  Old Man Omar is beaming.

  “Birds need to sense air under their wings and only then can they
fly!”

  The swift is greeted by an excited burst of chirps as the other birds welcome back their long-lost friend.

  Old Man Omar looks MoMo him up and down.

  “Young man, remind me. Where are you off to? Dressed like that?”

  The Boy notices his starched white uniform, as if for the first time.

  “MoMo! You promised me you’d not be late on your first day!”

  He sprints back to his bike, turns and waves.

  “Sir!”

  Old Man Omar looks up.

  MoMo shouts.

  “Thank you!

  A smile breaks out on the old man’s face.

  MoMo waves both arms.

  “Thank you for teaching me how to do it. I’m going to try!”

  Sitting back down on his rock, Old Man Omar scratches his chin as he watches the boy cycle away.

  Gravity

  MoMo arrives at a rise in the road, from where he has a vast view over the surrounding lands. The road winds down, with a series of switchbacks, to the small collection of flat roofs nestling amongst the crevices of the hill. A whistle blows and the children milling outside one of the buildings run inside. It is the classroom. He’s late.

  Grandma says the quickest way to get anywhere is ‘as the crow flies.’

  A path drops vertically down the hill to the rear of the buildings.

  Which means not going the long way.

  But going the quick way.

  Which is a straight line.

  Biting his lip, he pushes his bicycle over the edge and starts to head down the steep slope.

  He tries to use his feet to slow the descent.

  They skid along the track kicking up clouds of dust.

  He pulls at the brakes, but his brakes don’t work, they never have.

  The bicycle is accelerating.

  He brings his feet back onto the pedals for safety.

  Breakneck speed.

  He struggles to hold the handlebars steady.

  He hits small holes and glides over small stones.

  He keeps the bike pointing forwards.

  The bike hits a small rise.

  Which launches the bike skywards.

  Silence.

  Time slows.