Restless Soul - Alex Archer [54]
Annja watched him leave, looked at Luartaro, who was still sleeping soundly, and then rose and got dressed. The clothes she’d been given had belonged to a boy, she guessed from the cut of them. She wondered if they were from one of the two who had died. The gray pants fit snugly and hit her just above the ankles, and the shirt, made of coarse green broadcloth, rubbed a little uncomfortably against her skin. There were no pockets she could put her hands in. She couldn’t complain, though. These people had showed her compassion in spite of what she’d brought into their village, and she doubted they had a lot of clothes to spare.
She blamed herself for the two boys’ deaths and for Luartaro being injured. Had she done things differently, she could have confronted the gunmen in the jungle.
“Maybe I could have,” she said. “Hindsight is always perfect.”
She wondered about Zakkarat. She’d check on him, too, and ask Doc if his ankle was sprained or broken. But first she’d see to the remaining gunman. Doc was right; she wanted some information from him. She’d also want to borrow that old motorcycle she’d been offered yesterday, and retrieve the map someone had been drawing. She slipped on a pair of sandals that fit her surprisingly well. They were made of woven reeds with a strip of ox hide for a sole.
Taking a last look at Luartaro, she left the hut, nodding to Som on her way out. The broad-shouldered woman hovered nearby, talking to another woman and cocking her head back to no doubt indicate Annja and Luartaro. Annja headed to the building she’d been brought to the previous night. Several villagers were out, all of them pausing to watch her before they went about various tasks. Children were seated on the benches, none of them playing this morning. One pointed at Annja and talked animatedly to her companions.
Annja smelled something cooking. She couldn’t tell what it was, but it smelled wonderful and her stomach rumbled again to remind her she was famished. Thirsty, too. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt a little swollen.
“Doc?” Annja peered inside the doorway, seeing the Brit hovering over the remaining gunman. He was on the same table she’d been put on yesterday, and she saw that the top of it was stained from the blood. The windows were open, letting in the scents of jungle flowers, whatever was cooking and the almost overpowering odor of the moist loam. Light streamed in from all directions, giving the large room a much different appearance from her previous visit. At the end opposite from Doc and his patient was a slate board across part of the wall. Artfully rendered letters about six inches high stretched across it. She thought their alphabet much more beautiful than English or some of the other languages she was familiar with. It looked more like art than words.
There was a globe on a stand next to the teacher’s table, and there were other accoutrements any classroom would have: rulers, mugs filled with pencils and paintbrushes, a skeleton hanging from a pole—plastic from the look of it—and jars filled with grass and insects. The details had been obscured yesterday by the storm and all the people gathered inside. In addition to the student tables and benches, there were a few plastic chairs like someone might find in a department store’s garden department. There were also a collection of toys in the far corner—a dump truck, a Raggedy Ann doll, a few brightly colored pails and shovels, a faded basketball and three Barbie dolls with badly shorn hair.
“Doc?” she repeated.
He nodded and said something to himself. He rubbed a cotton swab under the man’s nose, and the eyelids fluttered. Annja came close and heard the floor creak behind her; Som and the woman she’d been talking to hovered curiously just inside.
“His name is Ba An Dung,