Free Bird

Asidi Abdul groaned as the aged lorry lurched over the barren terrain, devouring the land in front of it. He uncurled his toes and attempted to stretch, utilising the corners of the wooden crate he was situated in to hoist his body into a more comfortable position. The sweet, pungent aroma of apple and pear overwhelmed his senses, arousing the stabbing pangs of hunger that had been haunting him for the past few days.

“Stop moving,” his father murmured beside him, fatigue softening his words.

Asidi halted, slackening his muscles and sinking back into his uneven bed of apples. He waited an entire minute before bothering to respond, tentatively testing the silence.

“We’ve been travelling for almost a hundred hours,” Asidi whispered. “How can you expect me to remain still for such a long amount of time?”

Bahlul, his father, sighed, creasing his forehead in disapproval. At least, Asidi assumed he was frowning at him. The compartment was so dark, he could barely decipher the outline of his father beside him.

“You should be grateful for the crate that you sit in,” Bahlul reprimanded.

Asidi wished to retort, to disagree – but, his father was right. For an exorbitant fee, Bahlul had secured them a place on a fruit lorry which would lead them over the Durand line and into the lofty mountains of Pakistan. To freedom.

For what seemed the hundredth time, Asidi wistfully cast his thoughts to his now derelict home which had seemed to constantly smell of chicory and sweat. He longed for the crowded, dirt-packed streets of his village and the hordes of uncontrollable children that used to roam them. Yearned for the sunsets which used to mellow the horizon as the days stretched long into the nights, and the steady thrumming of his father’s tamboor. If Asidi had known the journey would be so taxing, so tiring, then perhaps – but, no…

He paused. The sound was almost incomprehensible, but his hearing had heightened after sitting in the dark for the last few days. A soft scratching, as if something tiny and taloned were caressing the thinly stretched canvas serving as the roof of the compartment. He raised his head, and the sound became louder, more urgent. The fabric of the canvas began to loosen and fray, allowing tiny droplets of light to seep into the compartment. Squinting through the near-blackness, Asidi desperately tried to comprehend the source of the sudden scratching.

The canvas above him split. Light seeped into the compartment, enveloping the lorry in a soft, warm glow. Asidi basked in the new-found light; it’d been so long since he’d last seen the sun, since he’d last felt warmth kissing his skin. A flash of grey-streaked feathers; Asidi simply stared in disbelief as a petite, Afghan snowfinch slipped through the minor tear above him.

He roughly rearranged the apples so that he could peer clearly through the slits of the crate. The finch deftly landed on a crate swelling with over-ripened pears beside him, pausing to preen its mud-brown plumage. A smile crept to Asidi’s lips as the finch discovered the contents of its crate, and plunged its long, pointed bill into the soft flesh of a yellow-skinned pear beneath it. With an air of excitement, the finch expertly lept from fruit to fruit before twirling towards Asidi, its mouth agape and head tilting inquisitively at him. Asidi eagerly brought his face closer to the crate’s bars, and as if in response, the snowfinch slowly began to sing.

The sound was like syrup. It was thick and sweet and gently resonated throughout Asidi’s body, warming his extremities. After almost seventy hours of near silence, the songbird’s delicate trill was a symphony to Asidi’s senses. He closed his eyes, letting the music consume him. It transported him home – to where he used to compose songs with his father beside their smouldering fire, singing softly as Bahlul strummed his tamboor.

The snowfinch swiftly scurried deep into its crate and out of sight, but its sweet, pleasurable tune continued to stir something deep inside Asidi. He knew he’d likely regret it, but he’d been shrouded in silence and darkness for so long that precaution no longer seemed necessary. The outside world seemed so foreign to him, so distant even though it was only hidden by a wall of coarse, tightly stretched canvas. Exhaling deeply, the boy opened his parched lips, and, without hesitation, Asidi began to sing. His voice was hoarse, and his tongue withered and dry, but the words did not halt. They could not halt. His tune resonated throughout the lorry, growing louder with each syllable.

He waited for Bahlul to reprimand him, to insist he stop – but, the command never came. Instead, a steady humming emerged from beside him, mirroring his own, uplifting tune. As if his father, too, remembered those warm summer nights, plucking his tamboor. From across the compartment, an old, crippled man began to whistle. Together, they created a symphony which seemed to reverberate throughout the lorry.

As they sang, whistled and hummed, they abandoned all conscious thought, letting the music consume them so fully that they could no longer distinguish between space and time. Their strong, uplifting tune overshadowed the cries of the powerful engine that had rumbled beneath their feet for the past week. They didn’t even realise that, as the lorry’s pace began to falter and slow, they had finally reached the border.

The constant thrum of the engine which had haunted them day and night silenced with a sudden severity. Asidi’s voice faltered before failing completely, a deafening silence replacing the resonating chorus which had sounded only moments ago. What had seemed like perfectly reasonable behaviour now appeared exceedingly foolish. Had they been too loud? After seven days of rough terrain interrupted only by brief, stressful fuel replenishes, had they finally been discovered? He squinted through the bars of the wooden crate and strained his ears, desperately trying to comprehend the commotion occurring outside the truck.

“Open it up. Now.” The voice was masculine and stern – laced with authority.

“Sir, I only transport apples and pears,” a man Asidi recognized as the driver replied insistently. “Nothing but apples and pears.”

The border officer simply snarled before extending his arm to rip the tarpaulin off the compartment, peering inside. The driver issued a nervous nod before tentatively following.

Asidi didn’t dare breathe. The officer’s steel-capped boots gave a thunderous thud as they climbed inside the compartment, the timber slats beneath his feet groaning as he slowly began to prowl. The man leisurely reached into the folds of his flak jacket for his pistol, his keen eyes scanning the contents of the compartment like a cat examining its prey. He ambled to a stop beside Asidi’s crate and tore open a sack of pears, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

From the corner of the compartment, a rapid fluttering sounded, loud and insistent. The officer’s head snapped upwards, and a smirk emerged on his malevolent face. Who had the idiocy to be making such a racket? Asidi prayed it wasn’t the old cripple.

He watched in silent terror as the officer zoned in on the sound with a predator’s ease, anticipation gleaming in his black eyes. He spared a glance back at the driver, whose sickly-pale face gave an audible gulp.

In one, fluid motion, the officer ripped the crate open, revealing to Asidi’s relief not one of his fellow passengers, but the Afghan snowfinch. The finch chirped discontentedly at the soldier, it’s feathers fluttering in annoyance. Asidi released a shaky breath, steadying his heartrate.

The officer growled in frustration, cocking his pistol towards the bird. A deafening bang sounded, and Asidi flinched as the snowfinch dropped to the floor with a sickening thud, its lifeless carcass barely visible through the slits of his crate.

“You may continue on,” the officer snarled in disdain, leaping out of the compartment with a surprisingly feline grace. The driver lowered his head, murmuring his thanks before quickly resealing the compartment. The engine thrummed to life not a moment later, its sound suddenly warm and welcoming. They had not been discovered; they were safe.

As they lumbered over the border and into Pakistan’s lofty mountain peaks, Asidi mumbled a prayer for the snowfinch lying only metres beside him.

The death of a free bird, to set a dozen caged ones free.