The Journey Prize Stories 21 by Various

he said again that he would not see anyone and a woman spoke loudly in a native language, and the discussion among the impromptu welcoming group that formed when we left the ferry simply moved on to the topic of whose hut we would stay in. We were given dinner and then, respectfully, our privacy. Now Christopher lies on his back, asleep, fevered, sweating, his breath shallow and sour.
    In the morning it becomes clear that the village has understood our purpose – Christopher’s purpose – when a woman comes to us with food and explains that she will come again later, when the music is to start; she and some others will come to bring Christopher to the music. He must rest till then. Then she takes my hand and leads me away to give me a tour of the village. She takes advantage of shade cast by trees, huts, anything to avoid being in the sun for long. I carefully simulate interest till our last stop, the school, where the lesson is interrupted so the children can sing to me. My guide explains that the song thanks a visitor for travelling from very far to be with them, and when it’s over and the children applaud, she tells me that they are applauding for me. She is looking in my eyes when she says this and then she takes my hand again, speaks to the children, and we walk away. “I told them how very much you liked their song,” she says, and when our eyes meet I cannot tell whether she believes I did, or cares, or is hinting a criticism. She returns me to the hut where Christopher is sleeping. It’s true that I liked the song, or that I would have liked the song if I could like anything, if I had a right to feel anything.
    My guide returns later with two men who have a small wooden cart for Christopher, which he gets into with no complaint, and we go, the cart pulled by one man then another, me walking behind, out of Christopher’s view to limit any challenge to his dignity. He holds the sides of the cart with his arms, to steady himself, but I can tell that his arms too have lost strength, and at intervals his head falls forward and bounces before he raises it again. We walk through the village and down to the lake, along the shore and then back, up through the trees, then the trees give way to a grassy plain, and there are cars, trucks – people have journeyed here from the north. A camp has been set up, and through the camp I follow Christopher in his cart to where a crowd has gathered, and then into the crowd, within view of a low stage, and now in my anxiety and anticipation I would take his hand, and he would look at me and smile, but I can’t and he won’t.
    I can’t describe music the way Christopher can. No band performs more than three or four songs. Members from one band reappear in another. Guitars, drums of all shapes, trumpets, even violins, marimbas or something like them, singers in groups and solo, dancers on stage and in the crowd. Someone brings large hats for Christopher and me, to protect us from the sun. Someone else brings us water. The crowd sings along with some songs, shouts to the musicians between songs, applauds and cheers after the songs. Christopher remains absolutely still in the cart, his face hidden by his hat, and I don’t know whether he is transported and fulfilled, revivified, or as angry as ever, disappointed, defeated, in excruciating pain, or dead … or dead, and in an instant I imagine confronting all the difficulties of transporting his body throughall the legs of our journey home. Then he takes a drink of water, and with the motion of his hand I’m staggered with relief and shame. I look around stupidly to see if anyone has noticed, and another song begins.
    Something delays us, and after taxiing we wait a long time for takeoff. Christopher is limp beside me – limp and weak, as though his bones are becoming rubber. I have fastened his seat belt for him, as before I carried his baggage and pushed his wheelchair, helped