as I had ever been. I didn’t know what the world was like beyond it, and I didn’t have the Book to ask. I missed it most fiercely in those early days, when I so needed its advice.
I made one sensible decision: to dress as a boy. Jane Watson had told me that it could be dangerous for women to travel alone. She kept a gun, which she wore on a shoulder holster hidden beneath her jacket when she was travelling. She showed it to me once: it was quite small, a revolver, which she said was standard issue for city traffic police, and which she had bought on the black market when she had arrived in our country. I weighed it in my hand briefly before giving it back to her with a shudder; it was surprisingly heavy and the metal felt cold and deadly. I had no idea how to fire a gun, and had never thought to learn. Now I wished I had taken the trouble. It wouldn’t have been so hard; Sopli had a gun and would have taught me, if I had asked him. But now it was too late, and all I had to protect me was my knife.
On the other hand, it would take a sharp eye to pick me as a girl. As I floated downriver, I cut my braid off at the nape of my neck with my clasp knife. Although the blade was sharp, it took a while to saw through my thick hair, and when I had finished I held the severed plait in my hands for some time, breathing heavily, before I threw it in the water. The air felt cold on the back of my neck. The plaited hair twirled on the ripples for a while and then drifted off to the bank, where it snagged on some reeds. I watched its fate with a curious mixture of sadness and liberation. It was as if, with that gesture, I had thrown away my childhood.
Now my hair was short, it would be easier to look after, and no one would think I was a girl. I have always been skinny, and my small breasts were easily hidden in a baggy shirt. With my worn sandals, shin-length trousers and sun-bleached shirt, I looked exactly like a water rat, one of the ragged orphan boys who hustle a living up and down the water, making deliveries, running errands, catching fish or freshwater crabs.
I let the current take me for the rest of the day, only exerting myself to ensure that I didn’t ground on any shoals. I listened to the many voices of the River and watched the banks drift by, raising my hand occasionally when I passed farmers hoeing their fields or cleaning out the irrigation channels on the banks. I didn’t think about my family, who by now would have discovered my letter. I didn’t want to think about them, because it would hurt: they would be bewildered, grieving, worried; they might even be angry with me. I didn’t think about the Book, or where I was going. I just lay back in my boat and squinted up at the sky and let myself be empty. For the first time in my life, I was no one: I had left behind everything that I knew and everyone who knew me. I didn’t feel sad or lost or confused, or anything that I might have expected. I think what I felt more than anything else was relief.
16
When I read Mely the last chapter this morning, she stood up and stretched from her nose to the tip of her tail. Then she yawned delicately, showing every one of her white, sharp teeth. Finally, after all that pantomime, she deigned to tell me what she thought.
“That,” Mely said, “is a pack of lies.”
I should be used to Mely by now, but this offended me.
“Lies?” I said. “I am trying to be as truthful as I possibly can. And how can you know, anyway? I haven’t met you yet. You weren’t even there.”
“I met you very soon after that,” said Mely. “And you didn’t seem at all relieved to me. You were lost and confused and sad, all the things that you say you weren’t.”
I sighed. “That was
afterwards
,” I said. “I felt all those things
afterwards
. Not on the first day…”
“That’s why I felt sorry for you,” said Mely. “Because you were so lost.”
“You felt sorry for me? As I remember, it was
me
who took pity
I made one sensible decision: to dress as a boy. Jane Watson had told me that it could be dangerous for women to travel alone. She kept a gun, which she wore on a shoulder holster hidden beneath her jacket when she was travelling. She showed it to me once: it was quite small, a revolver, which she said was standard issue for city traffic police, and which she had bought on the black market when she had arrived in our country. I weighed it in my hand briefly before giving it back to her with a shudder; it was surprisingly heavy and the metal felt cold and deadly. I had no idea how to fire a gun, and had never thought to learn. Now I wished I had taken the trouble. It wouldn’t have been so hard; Sopli had a gun and would have taught me, if I had asked him. But now it was too late, and all I had to protect me was my knife.
On the other hand, it would take a sharp eye to pick me as a girl. As I floated downriver, I cut my braid off at the nape of my neck with my clasp knife. Although the blade was sharp, it took a while to saw through my thick hair, and when I had finished I held the severed plait in my hands for some time, breathing heavily, before I threw it in the water. The air felt cold on the back of my neck. The plaited hair twirled on the ripples for a while and then drifted off to the bank, where it snagged on some reeds. I watched its fate with a curious mixture of sadness and liberation. It was as if, with that gesture, I had thrown away my childhood.
Now my hair was short, it would be easier to look after, and no one would think I was a girl. I have always been skinny, and my small breasts were easily hidden in a baggy shirt. With my worn sandals, shin-length trousers and sun-bleached shirt, I looked exactly like a water rat, one of the ragged orphan boys who hustle a living up and down the water, making deliveries, running errands, catching fish or freshwater crabs.
I let the current take me for the rest of the day, only exerting myself to ensure that I didn’t ground on any shoals. I listened to the many voices of the River and watched the banks drift by, raising my hand occasionally when I passed farmers hoeing their fields or cleaning out the irrigation channels on the banks. I didn’t think about my family, who by now would have discovered my letter. I didn’t want to think about them, because it would hurt: they would be bewildered, grieving, worried; they might even be angry with me. I didn’t think about the Book, or where I was going. I just lay back in my boat and squinted up at the sky and let myself be empty. For the first time in my life, I was no one: I had left behind everything that I knew and everyone who knew me. I didn’t feel sad or lost or confused, or anything that I might have expected. I think what I felt more than anything else was relief.
16
When I read Mely the last chapter this morning, she stood up and stretched from her nose to the tip of her tail. Then she yawned delicately, showing every one of her white, sharp teeth. Finally, after all that pantomime, she deigned to tell me what she thought.
“That,” Mely said, “is a pack of lies.”
I should be used to Mely by now, but this offended me.
“Lies?” I said. “I am trying to be as truthful as I possibly can. And how can you know, anyway? I haven’t met you yet. You weren’t even there.”
“I met you very soon after that,” said Mely. “And you didn’t seem at all relieved to me. You were lost and confused and sad, all the things that you say you weren’t.”
I sighed. “That was
afterwards
,” I said. “I felt all those things
afterwards
. Not on the first day…”
“That’s why I felt sorry for you,” said Mely. “Because you were so lost.”
“You felt sorry for me? As I remember, it was
me
who took pity
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