Only she and the driver were awake, like watch
keepers, their fellow travellers contorted in fitful sleep. She drew a scarf more closely against the
chill and for just a moment regretted the liberation from her waist-length hair. Behind her, the Samoan couple’s snores rose
above the relentless engine drone.
The barest wash of lightness brushed the horizon. Outside,
the passing landscape was layered shadow, trees silhouetted in charcoal against
black hills. In yellow-eyed farmhouses, she pictured early risers and restless
children sharing the liminal hour, neither day nor deeply night.
The air rustled and shifted behind her. E a mea
sou faalagona? The woman’s mellow tones were answered by a groaning
thunder-rumble. Ua tiga lo'u patua. Ahead,
two girls stirred, embraced, roused by the flare of a chirping mobile phone. With rising panic, she pressed her forehead against
the glass, and reminded herself why she had left.
“Today’s technology is the dominion of the
ungodly,” the pastor had preached the day before he preyed upon her. “We must
remain apart, as God divided light from darkness.”
“Your sinfulness is making you barren,” her husband
had declared, as month after month her bleeding testified to her failure.
“From today, I have no daughter,” her father had
announced that final morning, and her mother’s blank face turned away.
The Samoan woman retrieved a bag from the overhead
shelf and sat, breathing heavily. A zip opened, a lid was removed and paper
rustled. E ai se mea e te fia ai?
An answering grunt, then the greasy waft of cold pastry and sausage.
A hand touched her arm. “You want something to eat?
A sandwich? Take it.” The woman pushed the container forward.
Hesitating, she accepted the offering with a quiet
word of gratitude.
The bus rolled on towards morning.
Rosemary McBryde
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