WriteClique.net - "The Boy who Spoke in Numbers" by Masii

The Boy who Spoke in Numbers

by Masii

He woke up and stretched happily in his mat listening to the happy sounds outside; his mother bustling at the back of the hut, the Shy Snake in the Roof slithering shyly, the Cu-Cu-Ba-Bird searching for the Early Worm, the sound of water being drawn from the well. There were long silences in between the water being drawn; the wells in his village were very deep.
Then he remembered his dream. He had dreamt he was at the Laughing Ground with his cousins and lots of other children, chasing each other and playing with each other, exchanging giggles and passing insults. His cousins ran to ride the up-and -down and took turns to pluck clouds from the sky. As he watched them they went higher and higher, plucking clouds of different shapes and bringing them back to the Laughing Ground. The Laughing Ground was soon full of clouds of all shapes and sizes, in shades of white and an occasional pink. The children made cloud castles with them, some others an enormous cloud cake. The smaller children settled for cloud candy floss, whilst the naughtiest of them, burst the clouds, causing Happy Puddles to form and splashing in them merrily. The Laughing Ground had been bursting with happiness.
He smiled to himself at the recollection as he quickly rolled his mat and put it in a corner before stepping outside the hut to splash water from the leaking bucket next to the well. He brushed his teeth up and down, as he had been taught, trying to keep his hair from getting in his eyes.
On one side was an orchard of grapes, on the other banana trees, with fruit in all shades of green and yellow next to the plot of red onions, but no sooner had he finished brushing his teeth, he headed straight to the old guava tree at the back of the house, overhanging the paddy fields.
He climbed its branches, slender and smooth and spreading in the sun and found what he had been looking for; a Juicy Sum kept for him by his uncle.
They called him the Boy Who Spoke in Numbers. He didn't go to school and there was a lot he didn't know, but he knew all about numbers. He liked the way they co-operate with other numbers, the way they allowed him to say things in crisp sums. Everyone else spoke in Colour; the Cost of Lying made people Red, people were often Marooned and the jokes were all Black, yet he refused to speak the language. Whenever someone gave him something written in Colour, he folded it and kept it carefully. He knew it carried important news-sometimes good news, but more often than not bad news. He was surer of numbers; there were no Bad People in his world of numbers, only Unsolved Sums.

He hurriedly gobbled his breakfast, washed it down with tea from his ever- shiny tumbler and sidestepping his mother's half hearted protest, left for the Laughing Ground. The Laughing Ground didn't have much; a swing, an up-and -down and an uneven patch of grass to play in. When the Big Rain came it was full of Happy Puddles. The children of his village would run to splash in the biggest puddles till they were happy and covered in mud- knowing well how unhappy their parents would be at that.
He checked to see if he had his pass as he approached the Singing Fridges checkpoint ('available in three models-pop , rock and karaoke' it said,) it's tin roof on top of green sandbags on top of packed sand shining in the sun. The soldiers there liked to harass the villagers, especially a boy who could only speak in numbers (later in life he couldn't open a fridge without shuddering at the memory). Life began and ended in the Small Village of Fat Hopes with a pass. You needed a pass to go to school, to go to hospital, even to the Laughing Ground. Those who lost their pass had endless questions to answer. Those who didn't have the right pass were taken away. As a result there was a One Day Pass, a One Week Pass, a Lifetime Pass even a Laughing Pass.
It was a quiet time of day, no birds chirped, no guns boomed. He was passing a grove of banana trees heavy with fruit in shades of smiley yellow. That's when he heard it; it sounded like an animal in distress, at the same time like a shopping list of complaints "80 rupees a kilo of red rice!" he looked hard to find the source of the complaints, "67 rupees a kilo of flour! "The grumblings got louder. Then he realised too late it was coming from behind him as a white cow rushed past him, saying '50 rupees for a kilo of sugar' as it charged around the corner, almost knocking him down.
He recovered in time to hear a thud and a strangled curse as he ran round the corner to find the cow trying to extricate itself from a tangle of rusted barb wire- the type the soldiers place in an attempt to mark their territory. He stepped carefully up to her, the cow went silent; she looked more embarrassed than hurt. He gently removed the barb wire, noticing how her ribs stuck out. The cow shook her scrawny back legs in the air and then came up to him to lick him vigorously. He thought he must have heard wrong; after all cows are given to mooing not mourning. Just then she resumed loudly complaining "275 rupees a packet of milk! Canned fish 100 rupees! 187 rupees a litre of coconut oil!" she said, much to his astonishment. He didn't quite know what to make of it; he had never met a cow like this before. Was she saying that the Cost of Lying was too high? Was she pointing out that the numbers were not adding up? He liked her immediately. He gently stroked her head. Her big eyes, shining with happiness, the Constantly Complaining Cow continued "180 rupees a kilo of dried fish! Soap 24 rupees!"

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