The two men walked Ruslan over to the single tree, its shadow growing long across a dead rice field. A crow had settled on its branches, the bird black as a devil from hell. Ruslan’s heart banged away, but whatever happened, he wasn’t going to go with the rebels. He had to find his father.
“Clever, that little slip you gave us, falling into the river like that,” the rebel leader with the white eye said. The other man stood respectfully to the side. “But I knew you could swim. Your father was always so proud of you. Told us how you were like a fish, playing in the sea.”
Ruslan gaped at him.
“I’m Bachtiar. Your mother’s half brother. Your uncle.” His good eye held Ruslan’s gaze, as though waiting for Ruslan’s reaction.
Ruslan couldn’t speak. This man was his uncle? Things seemed to be getting very complicated very quickly here. He finally spluttered the only thing that came to mind. “How come you didn’t tell me before?”
“I would have, if you hadn’t been so hasty in leaving us. I would have also told you that your father never made it past Calang. The military intelligence intercepted him and took him in for questioning.”
That drove all other thoughts from Ruslan’s mind. “Do you know what happened to him?”
The man—his uncle—shook his head. “The interrogation unit worked out of a building by the officers’ mess. Gone. Nobody would have made it out of those cells.”
Ruslan bit the inside of his cheek, hard. “My father would have.”
His uncle’s good eye softened. “Let me tell you something. Your mother wasn’t killed in a cross fire. She died as a fighter, a rifle in her hands. She was a proud Acehnese warrior, fighting for a free Aceh. After her death your father took you away from Ie Mameh, refusing to let you grow up in the cause. We respected that. But now he is dead. Killed by the military just as surely as if they’d shot him.”
The silence that followed was broken by the loud flapping of the crow’s wings. The bird soared on the golden air, gliding down to the second open grave pit. The operator had shut down the excavator for the day. He bent over a plastic bucket, rinsing his face.
Ruslan’s uncle put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re your family now, Ruslan. Come with us. Not as rebel, but as family.” His uncle kissed Ruslan on both cheeks in a formal hug. His skin was rough, his breath smelled of tobacco, but his touch was gentle.
Ruslan was in a daze. This man was his uncle. And hadn’t his mother come to him today, to comfort him? It was as though somebody had knocked down a high wall within him, allowing him to see a grand vista of green land and gentle water that he had never known was there.
The crow flapped down into the grave pit. The excavator man saw and shouted, waving his hands. The bird flew out with lazy beats of its wings.
“I have to find my father,” Ruslan said. “I have to know.”
His uncle’s smile reached even to his dead white eye. “As a good son must. When you are ready to find me, go to that small hill where you stayed the other night. Some of my men will be there.”
The guard yelled at Ruslan, “Hey, sun’s setting. We have to get back to camp.”
“God go with you,” Ruslan’s uncle said. He and the other man walked away.
In the bouncing truck the guard sat beside Ruslan and shared a single cigarette with the excavator operator. He offered the cigarette to Ruslan, who declined. “Who were those guys?” the guard asked.
“Family,” Ruslan said.
“Good to know you have some left.”
Ruslan parked the truck in the cleared parking lot at the foot of the command hill. The truck driver was there, slouched on the seat of one of the few motor scooters the soldiers were using. He rubbed the back of his head, glaring at Ruslan, but said nothing, knowing that Ruslan could accuse him of corpse robbing.
As the other men wearily made their way up the hill, Ruslan trotted into the ruins of the town. All the living were already gathering on the camp’s hill for sunset prayers and for their rations. The only inhabitants in this neighborhood were ghosts stirring on the dusk breeze, and it seemed to Ruslan he could almost hear their bewildered and agonized whispers. He quickly found the drawing pad and box of crayons that he had placed on top of the overturned car. There was no black crayon in the box, so he chose the dark blue. Turning to the first blank page, which was water-stained but still clean enough, he rapidly began to sketch a face. A gust of wind ruffled the corner of the page, and over his shoulder, the whispering grew louder. No, no, draw me, draw my face, let them know it’s me, give me back my name.
With a shiver Ruslan slapped shut the drawing pad and hurried to the hill, where a man sang the call to prayer, his bare voice thin and reedy, yet rich with life.