Norikaii

Yenka never liked talking about Norikaii. Every time we would ask, he would turn his head away, drawing his thoughts in, sitting with his memories, and shutting us out.

I was born and raised in Inknaye, a little village where everyone knew everyone else. We stood at the border of Norikaii, close enough to see some of their taller buildings against the sky, but far enough that the stories of the war and everything else became distant echoes of the past.

People in our tiny village called it The Land Between Two Worlds. And that was exactly how it seemed. To the east lay the greater cities of Kousou. To the west, beyond the river and vast wastelands, lay Yenka's Norikaii.

I had only been to Kousou a few times. I was always awed by the tall buildings, the busy streets, the people who would walk past in such a hurried manner. How different from Inknaye where everyone stopped for a polite little chat about the plants they were growing or the weather.

Once, I asked why Yenka never came with us to the city. Mama shushed me, and later, as he was tucking me in bed, Papa told me that the cities of Kousou made Yenka sad.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because they remind him of Norikaii. They remind him of home."

Every child in our village knew that Norikaii lay beyond the river. Every child knew better than to venture close to the shores of Norikaii, on the banks opposite our own. We were very young when we received our first schooling about that place so close to our own, but that didn't stop us from peering into the shadows of the trees that waved their branches at us from across the river. Were there other children, too? Did they lie on their stomach on the shore and stare as hard as they could, hoping to catch a glimpse of us? Did they have soldiers like we did—armed men in uniform who patrolled along the stretch of the river facing Norikaii? Did they have men who walked the streets at night with their big guns and flashlights?

I used to be terrified of them until Mama told me that they were there to keep us safe.

"Safe from what?" I asked.

She said nothing done, only looked out the window to where Yenka sat on his rocking chair, rocking the hours away like he always did.

One night, as we were going to bed, we heard the sound of running feet and the din of startled voices crying out into the night. Papa opened the window and peered out. Outside, the light of a dozen flashlights lit the sky and the houses, chasing shadows and sending people out of their homes to investigate.

"There's someone coming in from Norikaii," a neighbour shouted to Papa as he ran past.

I stood frozen on our living room floor. My eyes strayed to Yenka who had left the room where he stayed, next to the kitchen. I couldn't tell what was going on in his mind. His eyes were clouded over but his mouth was moving, his hands were shaking.

A truck of soldiers rumbled past and in the hazy light from the nearby streetlamp, I could see their guns, all polished and, I assumed, loaded. I felt my heart beat quicker. Who was coming? Why were they coming?

Papa got dressed and went downstairs, whispering quick words to Mama, who clasped his hand tightly before letting him go out. Papa and the rest of the men in Inknaye always had to be ready in case something happened, in case a war broke out. It was only as the door shut behind Papa that I realised I was clenching my fists too, as if the force do away with what was happening.

Mama turned to Yenka and sat him on the couch, wrapping him in blankets, whispering words of comfort to him, touching his face with her hands, and brushing a kiss on his forehead before turning to me, "Look after your grandpapa. I'm going to make some tea."

We sat and drank tea the whole night. Yenka, barely able to lift the teacup with his trembling fingers. Mama, whose eyes strayed between the door and the clock every few minutes. Me, clutching at the threadbare cushions of our couch and praying for something to happen even if I didn't know what I wanted.

When Papa returned, the sun was rising in the east—colours of pink, orange, and gold, shooting across the sky to signal the arrival of a new day. Mama released the breath she must have been holding and, with a voice that shook, told me to go to bed. I didn't want to, but I was exhausted and I was worried. What had happened?

It was past noon when I woke. Papa and Mama were talking in the kitchen. Yenka was nowhere to be seen. It was then that I learned that someone had tried to escape from Norikaii the night before. Papa didn't know how he did it, but he must have hidden beneath the trees and walked among the shadows till he had reached the shores. Papa told me he tried to swim across, but a few metres and a few strokes later, some soldier from Norikaii had shot him. They had then rowed over and taken him back.

"Dead?" I asked.

Papa didn't know. "Death would be a mercy," he said. When I told him he didn't understand, he sighed and looked at Mama who gave him a nod. That's when I learned about everything I never knew before. About Yenka. About how he, too, had run from where he lived with his parents and two older brothers in a village in Norikaii. How he had escaped at night, running with the shadows to reach the river, swimming against the current to reach our shore. I learned that Yenka hadn't wanted to go, but that his parents and older brothers had insisted.

"At least one of us should make it out," they had said, "and maybe the rest can follow."

After that, the war between Norikaii and Kousou had broken out and Yenka had been forced to remain in Inknaye, a young boy of fifteen with nowhere to go and no family with him. Since then, Norikaii and Kousou remained hostile to one another. There were skirmishes every now and then, but as the years went on, things grew quiet.

I learned that Yenka tried to return once, but the boat he had rowed had been met with bullets and he had barely escaped alive. Since then, Yenka knew that there was no chance of returning. With tears in her eyes, Mama told me that it broke him and that every single day of his life, he always thought of his parents and brothers that had been left behind.

As the sun set, Mama sent me out. "Go get Yenka," she told me.

I ran through the village, shouting his name, but he was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't in the tea rooms where he and the other older men would sit and exchange stories. He wasn't in the small park we had in the middle of the city, sitting and watching the children and dogs play before their mothers would call them home.

It was late afternoon when I spotted him along the riverbanks. I slowed to a stop and watched as his hand brushed against his eyes. I knew what he was thinking about, what he was remembering. I walked over to him and tugged at his hand. He didn't turn, but grasped mine tightly, and we stayed there gazing past the smoke, past the trees, past the tall grass waving bleakly in the wind, gazing at the land and the home he could never return to—Norikaii.