A/N: A rushed, rough draft for an entry for the Imagine contest. This needs a lot of work, so please, come tear up. Thanks.
Edit: Thanks to Happy, Angel, and Jabs, for helping me revise this! Here is the second draft; still needs major polishing.
Major thanks to Snoink for all of her help.
Pavo
Pavo was the smallest boy in the village, barely taller than the back of a sheep. His dark hands and knees were covered in cuts and scrapes, and his shock of black hair was never combed. He hadn’t any family to care for him, so he wandered amongst the cattle from day to day.
He used to sit with the old men of the village, listening to their talks late at night. They sat in a close circle around the fire, rubbing their wrinkled hands together and speaking of the chosen ones.
We wanted to join them and ask them which one of us would be next to become a man of the village. There were about six of us who told Pavo to ask. We crowded eagerly behind the trunks of palm trees to watch and listen to their meeting.
It was useless; Pavo became a silent, immovable statue when he was amongst them. I don’t ever remember him speaking to anyone. In fact, I’m not even sure he could talk. His mouth was always fixed into a straight line, creating a blank expression on his dirt-streaked face.
Everyday, Pavo would sit on the hill and watch the skies. There was never anything to see; perhaps a cloud or a passing flock would cross his view and intrigue him for a moment before fading away in the distance. Sometimes, his eyes would widen and the blank expression would dissolve into one of awe. That was when we would make fun of him. We called him names like “Sky-boy” and “cloud.”
I don’t know if he really cared. He hung his head whenever we surrounded him, leaving no space for an escape. Pavo was an easy target, so picking on him made us all feel superior. We used to crowd around him as he prepared himself to eat and pry the food from his hands. Pavo would simply stretch his hand out and plead for us to return it. We used to jeer at his posture, running around him with one hand outstretched and our bottom lips stuck out in a pout. The taunts only stopped when we tired of it or ran out of things to say.
We used to watch him stagger up the hill, balancing a pail of water on his small head while trying to carry two in his hands. We could have helped him, but we didn’t. Instead we laughed as he shakily proceeded to deliver the buckets of water for the women who cooked.
We used to hold footraces amongst each other. Pavo wasn’t fast, but we would invite him to race anyway, promising him a large meal if he won.
We would run swiftly ahead of him and sit in the dust pretending to be bored as he panted up the hill. We pelted him with insults, but his face remained unreadable, save for the color that flushed his cheeks.
He was the best fisherman in the village, and he knew the exact time to cast the nets and when to draw them out. We claimed we knew the times too, but our nets never brought in much. Pavo’s nets always overfilled and the men had to come down and help him haul it back to the homes.
He would scramble up the coconut trees and harvest the fruit, gripping the stem between his teeth as he descended down the trunk. We would taunt him as he came back down, but we knew that none of us were brave enough to climb the trees.
None of us could wield a bow and arrow as well as his small hands could. Not even the old men had seen someone who could strike their target as precisely and effortlessly as little Pavo.
I hated him. We all hated him. He was a bother to have in the village. The old men loved him too much, and we thought it would lessen our chances of becoming men, so we plotted to get rid of him. We spied on him for any flaws he may have had that would make him seem bad to the elders. We found nothing more than him stealing a mango to eat.
One day, when he was watching the cattle for the men in the small patch of grasses that lay a few meters from our village, we approached him. He was lying on his back on the ground barely paying attention to the animals.
Pavo raised his dark eyes to us as we approached him. His eyes had an unusual hunger for something I couldn’t quite understand in them. The look in them changed suddenly and his eyes darted in distrust from one boy to the next. Whispers were exchanged amongst our group, and a few of us tried to smother our laughs. We told him that since he was the best fisherman, we wanted him to come down to the river with us and teach us how to fish.
It was a strange day when it happened. The skies were dark, but not with a storm. A queer feeling churned in my stomach as I led the way down to the river, walking almost as if Pavo weren’t amongst us. We reached the bank and I gestured towards the rowboat. He said nothing, but his eyes asked all he wanted to know and answered all that we needed to know. He was afraid.
The current picked up a few yards down from where we stood and continued for miles. Only the oldest fisherman in the village had learned the secret of the current. Little did we know that Pavo had learned the secret, too. Our plan was to push him into the current so that it carried him up the river and past the two trees arching over the water. Beyond the arch, the current merged with another stronger current that carried any unfortunate object to in either direction of a fork in the water.
He climbed into the boat, expertly balancing his weight so that the boat did not tip. He settled down on the bottom and picked up the oars. He motioned for me to come along, patting the empty spot before him. I told him we wanted to watch and learn. He shot a suspicious glance at us and without further hesitation began to row, causing the boat to enter the current sideways. We watched as he carefully maneuvered the boat around the gentle ripples that the current created. He was watching us as he rowed, making sure we paid close attention.
Suddenly, one of the boys gave a shout and ran forward, alarming us all. He ran through the water, his arms churning both liquid and air as he headed for the boat. Before any of us could think, he turned the nose of the boat into the current. He pushed it with such force, the boat began to spin uncontrollably and started to drift quickly downstream.
We laughed. We bent over, clutching our well-fed bellies as fear became evident on Pavo’s face. His large eyes widened in terror as he desperately tried to steer the boat back to the shore. A fish jumped out of the water, only to frighten him more and make him drop the oars.
That’s when it happened. Fast.
The wind picked up speed and hurled bits of sand at our faces as the sky darkened. Mangoes and Coconuts fell from their trees and hit the ground. We paid no attention, though, and only continued to point crooked fingers at him as we mocked his struggle.
For the first time since he had wandered the village, I heard him scream. The boat keeled over, and he disappeared beneath the water with a splash. He rose to the surface and gave another shout before disappearing into the darkness.
This time, he didn’t come back up.
Our laughter faded into a few uneasy noises, each of us looking at anything but each other. The wind began to howl around us, tearing at our clothes and smiting our faces with airy blows. We questioned each other with our eyes, not one of us willing to take the blame for the crime we had just committed. We were all guilty.
Everything stopped. The winds, the sand—even our breathing slowed. Our eyes searched the area for anyone who may have seen. There was no one around, yet it didn’t help to ease the new burden we all carried.
The darkness of the sky ceased, casting a strange sense of peace on us all. It wasn’t sweet as I had imagined it to be; it was bitter. I can only compare it to the peace I envision to come after a war.
The empty boat floated back towards the shore, closely followed by the pair of oars. We looked away from it and walked back to village; shame, guilt and sorrow weighing our hearts down.
Pavo was gone. Forever.
