Playing Lady Gaga, Being Nan Pau. Steve Tolbert

the officer spoke. ‘Fifty, maybe sixty metres. Not far. If there are mines out there, you’ll soon know. Respect them. Walk gently, avoid dips and stay close to bushes and saplings where the soil is root-filled. Do that and there’s a good chance you’ll get to the other side.’ He raised an index finger in the air. ‘But, though you’ll need to walk gently, you must also leave footprints deep enough to follow so you won’t have to return to get your packs. Our soldiers will carry them for you. And remember, if you stop or try to go beyond the clearing, you will be shot … Good luck,’ he added, in a false tone of concern.

      The taste of bile in Mya’s throat, the air suddenly hard to breathe.

      ‘Fear is to be expected,’ the old porter muttered. ‘It sharpens the focus of your mind. The challenge is not to be overcome by it.’

      He sounded educated. Her eyes lingered on him, his mouth hanging open, wet singlet stuck to his bones. He was no longer the indifferent stranger he had tried to be. ‘May the Buddha’s blessings stay with you,’ he added, looking at Mya now and smiling weakly.

      Her voice quavered, ‘And with you.’

      ‘I am not here. The others are not here. Only you are. Keep your eyes on the ground and avoid any disturbed earth. Under it might be a landmine.’

      Mya’s throat locked against a surge of nausea. Blood thudded through her veins. She felt light-headed and took several deep breaths. Then she braced herself and stared out at the hard earth in front of her, struggling to concentrate on the best route across. Hers was the driest, sparsest section of all: barely a shrub or a sapling, just stones sticking out of the ground and small dips and rises from start to finish.

      She asked herself what it would be like to step on a mine out there. Instant nothingness if she were lucky. Or thrown into the air, collap­sing on the ground, feet gone, legs ripped apart, her screaming the last sound she’d ever hear. And away from this clearing, no one knowing why or when, only her mother and father at opposite ends of the country left to remember her name.

      The order came: ‘Walk.’

      A bird shrieked, ‘People coming.’ A vulture answered, its sharp eyes aimed, ‘I know. I am watching.’ And everything poured out of Mya – hope, spirit, self-control. She felt weightless, wet between her legs, her body’s betrayal no more than a passing thought. She stared at the ground – each crack, ripple, mound – and tried to lose herself in calculations. ‘Fifty metres,’ she mumbled, finding a strand of her voice, coaxing her muscles to do what her mind resisted, ‘a hundred steps, each touching the ground like a feather, toe to heel, before pressing down.’

      Shackles tightened and she walked, counting the steps, heart pumping, barely able to breathe for fear of disturbing the ground.

      The still air carried every sound: distant birds, twigs crunching, shackles clacking, porters sucking air, until at thirty-four: KAH-ROOOOM! Then again: KAH-ROOOOM! Mya jerked her head around to where a few porters stood still as statues. Beyond them, under thinning smoke, two more porters – barely adolescents, bloodied, clothes in shreds, screaming and flailing on the ground. A third lay motionless.

      Shouts from the officer: ‘Get up, get up!’

      How could they? Their legs were ragged flesh and exposed bones.

      Shots rang out, puffs of dirt kicking up just short of the porters’ heels.

      ‘Go on!’ the officer shouted.

      ‘Concentrate,’ Mya heard the old porter say as she struggled to control herself.

      All the other porters looked from side to side. No one wanted to be the first to move. Two quick shots sent them diving for the ground and ended the screaming. The porter not chained to the others, who had been kept back with the soldiers, dashed out to the dead porters and unlocked their padlocks, freeing the corpses. He shortened the shackles and locked them again.

      ‘Go on!’

      The porters rose, Mya with them; heart and lungs doing their work, skin on fire, stomach ice. ‘Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty …’

      The old porter joined in, his breath coming in short bursts.

      ‘Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight …’

      ‘Life is short,’ the old porter gasped.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And death inescapable, and we have to accept that.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I am Kho Noc.’

      ‘I am Mya Paw Wah.’

      ‘Eighty-two, eighty-three …’

      A glimmer of hope that strengthened the closer Mya got to the trees. ‘We’re almost there, Kho Noc.’

      ‘Not far, not far.’

      Mya’s shackles caught on something behind her. She moved her leg sideways to free it, glancing over at him, his head lolling, his feet dragging over the ground, leaving no prints at all.

      ‘Eighty-seven, eighty—’

      A flash of bright white light, a blast, a whoosh of air, and Mya seemed to be floating, the sky swinging sideways, dirt like rain showering down on her, the air itself quaking, before she slammed into the ground.

      6

      She woke to a blinding glare, itchy skin, ringing ears, a low throbbing noise coming closer and closer. Then WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP … Dirt and bits of plant life flying around. A helicopter beating away all other sounds.

      There came an image of grey limestone cliffs, stupas and their spires perched on the most inaccessible knolls and outcrops. Now she understood: helicopter, yes, that’s how the stupa builders got up there, by helicopter.

      Stupas and spires faded; so too the whump, whump, whump …

      ***

      Hot pain, like she’d been stabbed in the head, leg and arm. Grit inside her mouth that she tried to push out with her tongue. Mya opened her eyes, wondering why they had been closed, why she was on her back, the sun blazing down, the ground rippling in the heat. She raised her head until she couldn’t.

      Vague figures nearby.

      Buzz of talk.

      She lifted an arm and as she stared at the matted blood and red ants running up and down it, a shadow spread over her. A boot jabbed her in the ribs. A man shouted, ‘This one’s come to life.’

      She tried to talk, but nothing came out.

      Two figures, now like paper cut-outs against the sun, rifle barrels peering over their backs. Behind them a familiar voice, ‘Unchain her. Get a stretcher made. She goes back with us.’

      Her head lolled to the side. Below the two figures, a crumpled body, its backside and legs ripped open, bits of longyi and singlet scattered about. She stared, memory of Thant’s body tunnelling her back. ‘This is for Thant!’ she screamed, belting the policeman below the ear.

      Her head grew heavy, like it was being buried under bricks.

      Death: let it happen.

      Her vision faded, the figures over her melting into the sun.

      ***

      In a stretcher, bumping along, rocking side to side. Overhanging branches, patches of sky moving backwards. Smell of earth and sweat. Pain in her head, leg and arm. Ringing ears. Someone’s laboured breathing. ‘I am Kho Noc.’ She lay there, adjusting to being alive, then tried to lift herself up, but couldn’t. She was strapped down, porters on each end, supply baskets fastened to their shoulders.

      In her mind random images and sounds: screaming, explosions, shackles and locks. She tried to order them, fill in the gaps, before