Livia Lone

14-THEN

Livia was riding an elephant through the jungle. Which was strange, because she had never ridden an elephant before. The sensation was pleasant-a rhythmic swaying as the beast lumbered forward, causing tree branches to brush past her cheeks. But the forest had such a strange smell to it-not the smell of trees and wet and earth she loved. Instead, something sharp and unnatural.

And then she realized with a weary sadness that there was no elephant, and there was no forest-it was another dream, like the last time. But she kept her eyes closed anyway, not wanting to be awake, wanting so badly to stay in the forest, even if it was only a dream.

But she couldn’t hold on to it. The sensation of riding an elephant faded, and she could feel that she was lying on her back. The ground under her was hard, and that swaying feeling and the smell she had thought were part of her dream, were something else. There was a vibration beneath her, and a distant, mechanical hum, the kind she’d first heard when the machine had moved the box onto the boat. But this vibration was stronger; the humming, louder. She heard hushed, unfamiliar voices speaking words she couldn’t understand. The dream broke into fragments, and everything came rushing back. She sat up and cried out in panic, “Nason?”

A woman was kneeling next to her and jerked back as Livia sat up. She was holding a cloth-had she been using it to stroke Livia’s cheek? Was that what had felt like branches in the dream? The woman’s skin was tea colored, and black hair flowed from beneath a colorful scarf, but her eyes were different. They weren’t round like those of the pasty white people-“trekkers”-who sometimes visited the village, but they weren’t long and narrow like those of the hill tribes or Thais, either. Livia had never seen a face quite like it-the cheeks broad, the forehead high, the nose long and narrow. The woman’s expression was concerned, even kind.

The woman said something in a soothing tone, but Livia couldn’t understand her. Everything here was different. The light was brighter, the air smelled cleaner, the tangy salt smell of the ocean was gone. She saw there were other people around, nine of them including Livia. But none she recognized. Who were these people? Where had the children gone? Where was Nason?

“Nason?” she said to the woman. “Nason!”

The woman shook her head, clearly not understanding. She said more words in her incomprehensible tongue. Livia shook her head in frustration and looked all around. She could see she was in a metal box again, but a different one. They’d moved her while she’d been sleeping. And all the children-Kai, the Yao boy, everyone… they were gone.

“Nason!” she shouted. “Nason!”

Most of the people were adults. About half looked Asian-Chinese, maybe. The other half looked like they came from the same strange tribe as the scarf woman. There were two children, both about Livia’s age. She thought they might be Indian, but wasn’t sure. She had only ever seen pictures in the textbooks at the village school.

Livia got to her feet. She swayed for a moment, feeling weak and thirsty. “Thai?” she said in Thai, looking from one face to another. “You speak Thai?”

They all stared at her, their expressions blank. No one responded.

Livia switched to Lahu, already knowing it would be useless. “Lahu?” she said. “Can any of you speak Lahu?”

The expressions didn’t change.

Livia jammed her fists against the sides of her head. What could she do? What could she do?

She noticed everyone was sitting in clusters, talking to the people nearest. So some of them spoke each other’s languages. But none spoke Livia’s. She had never so badly needed to talk to someone, just to be understood, even if they couldn’t answer her questions. But she was completely cut off.

She sank to her knees and covered her face in her hands, sobbing. The scarf woman stroked her hair and spoke more alien words. Her tone was soothing and she was obviously trying to help. But she wasn’t helping. No one could help. Nason was gone and Livia had no idea where she was, or how she was, or what had happened. She didn’t know where she herself was, or where she was going, or what would happen when she got there.

When she was too exhausted to cry anymore, she slumped against the wall. Maybe she could do what Nason had done-just go away. Just go away until things got better. Or maybe she could die. She knew she would die if she stopped eating. The thought was immediately appealing. Something she could do to make things better, something she could control. She would stop eating and drinking. If this was all a nightmare, eventually she would wake up. If it wasn’t, she would die. Either alternative was better than this.

But what if Nason needed her?

She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned through gritted teeth. She had to stay alive. No matter what, she had to do that. Until she found Nason, until she found out what had happened to her.

Yes. She could die after that. She could die whenever she wanted to. They had taken so much from her, but no one could take that.

Several days and nights passed like this. Men came with food and water and buckets like before, but different men-white men, their skin the color of cassava paste. Two of them were bigger than the Thai men, their bodies thicker with muscle. The third was stringier. All of them had shaved heads and tattoos up and down their arms. She didn’t like the way they looked at the people in the box. Skull Face and his men had felt like cats who would enjoy hurting the children, tormenting them-as eventually they had. But these men felt worse. When they looked at Livia, she felt they saw nothing but an animal, or not even an animal, just a thing. They could feed her, or clean her, or beat her, or kill her, and none of it would make them feel anything at all, neither enjoyment nor regret.

Whenever the men came, she tried to ask them about Nason. Of course they didn’t answer. Probably they didn’t even understand. She thought about banging on the side of the box, the way she had before. But Skull Face and his men had been prepared for that, and probably the pasty white men would be, too. Probably trying it again would only get her whipped.

She thought constantly about running. But there was always at least one man guarding the door. She did manage to look outside whenever they were in the box. She was amazed by what she saw-hills to one side; broad, grassy fields to the other. This was a river, wider than any she’d ever seen in the forest. They weren’t on the ocean anymore. And this was a different boat-much smaller than the first one.

At least the new men didn’t try to take her outside the box. At least there was that.

The box got stiflingly hot during the day, much hotter than the previous one. And it got colder at night. The men had given them each a blanket, but by the time the sun came up and gray light began to creep into the box, Livia was always shivering.

One evening, a little while after they’d been fed, about half the people began to groan and clutch their stomachs. Soon they were vomiting into the buckets. Something must have been wrong with the food. Livia knew herbs that might have helped-but that was the forest, and the forest had never been farther away.

The next morning, three of the sick people were dead-the scarf woman and the two children. Livia had seen dead bodies before-mostly old people from her village. She wasn’t afraid. She was disappointed. If she had eaten the bad food, maybe she would be dead now. The thought produced a pang of guilt-what if Nason needed her?-but she couldn’t help looking enviously at the three bodies. Their faces seemed so peaceful.

The other ones who had been sick were weak, but otherwise seemed okay. The rest of the people moved the bodies next to a wall and covered them with a blanket.

When the men came with food, they checked under the blankets. They saw the people were dead, but left them there. They fed everyone and changed the buckets as always and then left, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to them. Livia didn’t understand. She knew the bodies would start to smell soon. They had to be burnt or buried.

Another day passed. Livia’s anxiety about Nason gnawed at her constantly. It was as though someone had cut something away from her-an arm, a leg, a part of her heart-and now whatever was gone had been replaced by a raw, throbbing ache. She tried to make herself go away the way Nason had done, but it didn’t work. The most she could manage was a kind of half-awake, half-asleep state. She would curl up on the floor, facing one of the walls, not thinking, not feeling, not connected to anything, just an object passing through time.

That’s what she was doing when the shooting began.