Then they were off, in leaps and bounds, pausing every now and then to kick a hedge, a wall, or a pile of stones. Off they went to the edge of town to line themselves up in a row as they reached the grass.
They were still lining themselves up when the older boy said, ‘Whatever you do, make sure you don’t stone any swallows.’
He said this sternly, with a frown and outstretched arms.
‘Why not?’ asked a bleary-eyed boy who was scratching his neck. ‘Why shouldn’t we stone them?’
‘I don’t know why, OK?’ said the other. ‘Just don’t stone them.’
With these words, he took the lead. As he crept through the brambles, he kept his catapult raised and his eyes on the ground. The others licked their lips, glistening like blisters, and scattered. As they scrambled through the undergrowth, they were lost to the sun’s glare. Now and again they would pop up out of nowhere, clutching their catapults, only to be drawn back into the grass-scented hush that settled more heavily with every footstep. Suddenly, they all came to an abrupt halt. With narrowed eyes and bated breath they gazed out at the bushes amid the thickets of trees, the reeds lining the stream and the distant slopes beyond them. Not a muscle moved — until the eldest sprang back into action, of course. Propelled now by the heady scent of blackberry blossoms, they followed suit. As they made their way through the orange groves, some jumped up to tug at the branches hanging over them like gathering clouds to see them spring back. The sun beat down on them, burning their nostrils with each new intake of breath, while a ghostly and shimmering mist settled over the hilltops, the riverbeds, and the outcroppings of rocks. As always, nature had found a way to breathe. Each time it inhaled, sucking away all the air, the empty spaces around the trees and rocks and hedges filled up with the chirping of cicadas and of birds. Their songs glanced off the leaves like sunlight, sparkling only to fade and tantalise these boys who wished to kill them.
Just then, the oldest boy stopped by a lone pear tree.
Of course, the others stopped with him, breathlessly shielding their eyes from the sun as they peered into the thicket of trees just ahead. First, they watched a bright yellow butterfly making its escape, tracing wide arcs in the air with its shivering wings, veering recklessly, a shivering blur of gold in the darkening green gloom until even this was lost to view. The silence in the grove grew deeper still. Deeper than a thousand butterflies, lying wing to wing. And then, somehow, the birds contrived to fill that silence. Just one or two at first, until suddenly, resoundingly, they were singing all at once. Their song seemed to drip from the leaves themselves, stretching out from branch to branch, stirring like huge nested shadows, wrapping themselves around the trees and sprouting up between the rocks like grass. For the eldest boy, there was no more time to waste; after a quick glance back at his friends, he assumed a swaggering pose. ‘Bismillah!’ he cried, and let fly the first stone. He hit his target, sending it flailing to the ground. Running over to retrieve his prey, he promptly cracked its neck. For a moment he went pale. The bird’s warmth must have mixed with his own somehow, found some way to his heart, touching whatever tenderness he had left in him. Or perhaps it was the bird’s last song that had responded to his touch; perhaps it was this song that made the boy shudder. It seemed, almost, that he was going into shock, but then, most abruptly, the boy pulled himself up. Taking the bird by its wing, he held it up for all to see. With a nasty, pompous smirk, he tossed it high into the air.
The other boys stood there stunned and wide-eyed with envy. Then they melted into the bushes. Like tense little shadows, they advanced towards the clump of trees. The freckled boy who had lunged at Ali the Snowman’s table put his hand on Ziya’s shoulder, forcing him along. They stumbled on, catapults in hand, pushing their way past branches of fragrant blossoms and sun-dappled leaves, and on into the dark shadows. All around him, he could hear trampling feet. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see they were all going forward, but he could not feel his legs move or his feet touch the ground. Something was pulling the other footsteps off course. He thought it might be the ropes of couch grass, or the red earth, or the fresh shoots struggling through the undergrowth to be crushed underfoot. Soon all that remained were the stones, piercing leaves as they shot through the air, and the birds thrashing about at his feet. He leaned against a tree trunk to catch his breath. He looked away, far away. If only he could slip off into those distant hills. .
But he could not. And now Ziya found himself looking at a small bird. Perched on a thin and almost leafless branch, it was, despite the commotion surrounding it, sitting perfectly still. It might have been a statue, a feathered statue, sculpted from silence and long forgotten: it was so still, in fact, that it paid no heed to the approaching footsteps. And that was why Ziya could not move either. Serenity had turned this bird to stone. Now he, too, was anchored to the earth. No question any more of moving. In awed and breathless silence, Ziya stared at the bird as the grass curled around his heels. What he saw that day, and all he saw that day, was the thing this bird alone possessed. The promise of serenity. This was what struck his eyes, and stopped him in his tracks for that brief interlude, what pierced his heart. It would be forty-two years before he saw another living creature in such coy and naked contemplation, and when he did, it would force him back through the tangled web that was his memory and plant him on this patch of grass that had long since turned to dust, to stare unmoving at this bird once more. Or rather, it would take him more than forty years to understand what he saw in this bird’s eyes. At the time, of course, Ziya knew none of this. Truth be told, he had not the faintest idea what that day had set in motion. Only that this bird brought him peace. At the same time, he feared that one of the other boys might come creeping through the trees with his catapult mercilessly lifted. There was the need to keep watch. But each time he made to peer around the tree trunks, the earth itself seemed to ripple, and the undergrowth too. The light breeze carrying its scent was swaying as well, in actual fact. Swaying with the noise that rose and fell, heavy with its dark green silences, its uncharted distances and empty spaces. This was all very much in motion when a burly boy in a white shirt appeared from behind a tree trunk. He seemed to know about the bird already, and he made a beeline for Ziya.
Alarmed to see this boy loping towards him, Ziya glanced back at the bird. No sooner had he done so than he glanced away again, to see how much closer the boy had come. But there was no one there: just a mass of pointed branches and a rustling of leaves that served only to deepen the silence. Beneath the browns and greens of those rustling leaves, there was a canopy of daisies, a quivering of shadows, a hint of old, soiled lace. Just then — just there — another boy appeared. He raised his head, prepared for the kill. Broke into a run. Yelling as he went. He was thin as a whip, this boy, and fast on his feet. As fast, in fact, as the strange breeze he brought with him. The sun filtered through the leaves above, sending a river of sun drops flowing golden down his face and shoulders.
But then, when he was just a few paces away, this boy vanished.
Now another boy emerged, this time from behind the cool, shining creepers. Catapult raised, muscles tensed. Throwing back his head, he began to run, fast and faster, as fast as his body would allow, until, like the others, he vanished into thin air.
That was when Ziya noticed he had raised his own catapult and taken aim at the bird. This shocked him, of course. It frightened him, too. He began to tremble like never before. It was as if those boys were now inside him, running just as fast. He could hear their footsteps echoing inside him. The louder they became, the more Ziya longed to lower his catapult, but he couldn’t. In fact, quite the reverse. Without even realising, he pulled back the band. Then — who knows why, or how — he loosened his grip on the leather strap and knocked the bird off its branch. As it fell, it stayed silent and serene. Only when it hit the ground did it begin to struggle for its life.