Whisper by Chris Struyk-Bonn Page B

a shield around myself and prepared for my new life.

    On the first day of our journey, we met no other people, and I marveled that my mother had walked this distance all by herself for fifteen years. I understood the dedication she’d shown, the sacrifice she’d made. She truly had loved me. We slept in the vines and bushes, under the arching trees. My stomach rumbled with hunger. I tried to silence the sound by sleeping on my side, but the noise of emptiness reverberated against the ground. Because we had left the camp in such a hurry, I’d packed no food, and they offered me none during our travels. As my stomach continued to groan, I felt something pressed into my hand. My fingers closed around the object, and I brought it up to my nose. It was a piece of flatbread. I ate it in three bites.
    On the second day, we passed a small village. About ten huts were grouped together in a rough circle, and children, barking dogs and smiling villagers appeared and disappeared between the huts. I hoped that this village was ours, because I could feel the acceptance.
    Children ran out of the woods to greet us. They looked at my face curiously but were not afraid of me. They took our hands and pulled us into the center of the village, where sitting logs circled the fire pit. We were given bowls of rice, cooked vegetables and bits of meat. I ate the food while turned to the side so they could not see me placing the food at the back of my throat, away from my mouth, away from the openings that would make it spill out again.
    When I looked around the village, I saw another woman like me, with slits in her face, openings between her nose and mouth, but also with one eye that looked always down.She smiled at me and raised her hand. I raised my hand in response, but Belen moved in front of me, blocking my view. While I ate my dinner, I saw two boys playing together by the fire pit. One of the boys had only one arm, and the other had a sore at the back of his head.
    I wanted to stay in this little village where the disfigured children played around the fire pit with the other children and where the parents could watch them. But after we ate the meal in the early evening, we continued on our way.
    The path we followed started to widen, and I noticed now the difference in the trees. My legs and hands were no longer stung by the thorns and brambles, and spaces appeared over our heads. More and more people passed us, people with markings and symbols on their arms and faces, people with their hair cut into strips on their heads or braided in long lines down their backs. They looked at me with the same curiosity with which I looked at them. Sometimes Belen and Celso stopped to talk with these people and sometimes we passed them without a word.
    On the third day, we stopped in another village and were given a meal, but I did not want to stay in this village. The children hid behind the huts or trees when they saw my face, and one little boy stood in front of me, pointing and screaming.
    I was offered rice here, but there were no vegetables and there was no meat, although I could smell something roasted coming from Belen’s bowl. I did not sit on the log beside my little brothers but on the ground at their feet, dipping my fingers into the rice, eating as fast as I could in case they decided to take away what little food I had. Here I felt like an animal, squatting, skulking, shoveling, while they watched me as though I might eat their children.
    The night before we reached our village, Belen and Celso built a fire in a small clearing. They sat near the warmth with the two boys while I sat behind them, just beyond the fire’s reach, trying to see clues to my mother in the shapes of the boys’ heads. They said little, but I did hear my name and saw Belen glance back at me.
    Celso stood from his place by the fire and walked to me. I kept my chin on my knees, my arms wrapped around my legs.
    â€œYour place is with us now,”