The Children of Indigo

The Children of Indigo, 2009.

Excerpt. Due for publication 2011.

“Hurry son, just as I showed you.”

I watch as little Naranbaatar struggles with the bundle, his slender fingers straining against the braided twine. Gunga steps from behind the blanketed doorway and hands him a flint; she refuses to look me in the eye. Stubborn as a lame mule, my wife. Smells like one too sometimes.

The boy begins to saw at the twine, and manages gradually to loose the kindling.

“Good, good, and now what?”

Gunga yawns, a mouth as wide as the planes, and stretches into the darkness. The boy scurries behind the yurt, gathers an armful of dry grass and then arranges it amongst the kindling. He begins chipping away with the flint.

“Not too hard, remember to rotate your wrist.”

He obeys my instruction and after a few attempts a spark jumps from the flint, across empty air for a wordless moment, and then flares into the grass.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Gunga grumbles, “my back is bent as an old yak.”

My boy looks up at me proudly as the fire hisses and smoke begins to twist into the dawn sky.

I give Gunga a stern look and she turns away, pretending to be angry. “They were here,” I mutter to her, and I can sense her eyes fall, even from behind her head.

“I know.”


~ by robpercival on August 31, 2010.

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