20
Shanti followed close to Connor, doing her best to behave like a Buddhist nun as they made their way down a dirt path toward the river. Above them, a half-moon hung lazily in the sky, its light enough to keep her from tripping on rocks and tree roots, the night full of the sounds of frogs and insects.
After a hike of maybe five minutes, they left the jungle behind, the world opening around them. Boats and structures made of bamboo and fabric dotted the riverbank, people walking here and there. They’d spent so much time avoiding people that being out in the open like this put Shanti on edge. What if they noticed her boots and Connor’s? Or her handbag? Or the cuffs of their jeans sticking out beneath the robes?
Then again, if monks had cell phones and laptops these days…
A group of four soldiers walked toward them, rifles over their shoulders. Adrenaline shot through Shanti, made her heart race. She kept her gaze on the ground, tried to conceal her face. The soldiers greeted them, Mya answering.
The seconds ticked by, Shanti barely able to breathe.
They walked on, their voices fading.
“The boat is over here.” Mya led them down the muddy bank to a small wooden skiff. “Climb in. I’ll untie it.”
Connor helped Shanti step into the boat, the small craft rocking precariously, throwing her off balance. “Sit in the center.”
He sat in front of her, while Mya pushed the boat away from the riverbank before stepping in with bare feet. The skiff floated out into the river, was caught by the current, and began to glide downstream, Mya at the rudder.
Shanti let out a breath. “I was afraid those soldiers would recognize us.”
“People see what they want to see,” Mya said.
Connor was back in military mode. “Where does this river lead?”
“It flows into the Naf River, but I can take you only so far as Myar Zin. Then I must return. The water grows too rough after that and would destroy the boat.”
Myar Zin.
Shanti knew that name. That was Sareema’s village. More than three hundred people had been murdered there. “That was a Rohingya village.”
Shanti hadn’t realized they were in that part of the country. They really were close to the border now.
“Yes, and you must take care. We’ve heard that there are Border Patrol and Tatmadaw in the area, both on land and on the rivers.”
Shanti’s heart sank. “So, business as usual.”
Connor grinned at her over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t want life to get boring, would you?”
They flowed with the river, passing a herd of elephants that had come down to the river’s edge to drink. A baby stood between his mother’s front legs and sloshed its little trunk back and forth in the water, playing.
Shanti saw Connor watching, the smile on his face putting an ache in her chest. He had sacrificed so much for his country. He deserved happiness, a chance to live a life that didn’t give him nightmares, a future without violence.
She wished that life could be with her. But Connor had been clear.
He didn’t do relationships.
What are you going to do when this is over?
She didn’t want to think about that now.
They had floated downstream for a couple of hours when the river began to bend gently northward. Mya used the rudder to steer the skiff toward the riverbank.
“Wait.” Connor raised the rifle, looked through the infrared scope, then lowered it. “It looks clear.”
“This is Myar Zin.” Mya stepped out of the skiff. “There are farms owned by Buddhist families not far away, so you must avoid going there. They are good people, but they have been led to believe that you are their enemy. The Rohingya village stood just through those trees.”
Connor jumped to the sand, then helped Shanti. “Thank you, Mya. Please thank your father, too. I’m sorry I doubted him.”