They watched a moment longer then backed away from the window, fearful of being seen … and fearful perhaps that the wind might carry up whatever was killing the rice below.
Bingwen ran to the old woman’s bag of clothes and pulled out an old shirt frayed at the edges. He moved it in his hands until he found a small tear. Then he gripped the fabric on both sides of the tear and pulled. The old, brittle cotton fibers put up little resistance, and the shirt ripped in half. The pulling motion sent a shot of pain down Bingwen’s bad arm, however, and he almost dropped the fabric.
“What are you doing?” the old woman demanded, rushing over and raising a hand to strike him.
Bingwen offered her half of the shirt. “Wrap it around your mouth and nose, like a bandana. To breathe through.”
The woman paused, then understood. “Yes, yes. Of course.” She called her husband over. “Find more pieces,” she said, gesturing to his bag. “Tear up your shirts. Make masks for all these people.”
“Why don’t we tear up your clothes?” said the old man.
“Just do it,” said his wife.
Bingwen wrapped the other half of the shirt around his face. He waited a moment while everyone gathered around the old man, their attention focused on the prospect of fabric, then Bingwen rushed outside to the barn. If Mazer or any of the soldiers were hurt, he would have to move them, which of course he couldn’t do without help.
Bingwen sized up the two water buffalo in the barn. The one on the right was fatter and wider and therefore stronger. But that didn’t necessarily make it better. Bingwen clapped loudly and whistled and waved his arms for the water buffalo to come to him. The smaller of the two stepped toward him until the rope around its neck pulled taut and stopped it. The bigger one merely stared at Bingwen, slowly chewing something.
Obedience trumps strength, thought Bingwen.
He untied the smaller of the two and threw a burlap tool pouch over its back, the kind with two wide pockets on the sides for carrying supplies. Bingwen looked around him. He didn’t know what he needed. He wasn’t even sure he needed anything. There was a coil of rope in one corner, covered in dust and spiderwebs. He packed it in the pouch. There was a hatchet on the wall, old and rusted and probably not very sharp. He put that in the pouch as well. There were huge cotton harvesting bags with a single shoulder strap piled in one corner. If he needed to dress wounds, those might come in handy. He stuffed as many as he could into the pouch.
“Bingwen.”
The voice was mild and kind. Bingwen turned around and faced Grandfather.
“You cannot go, little one. You cannot help the soldiers.”
“Why not?” asked Bingwen. “Because I am small?”
Grandfather gave a rueful smile. “Size is no measure of ability, child. See how you chose the smaller of these two water buffalo.”
“Because he obeyed me.”
“Just as you must obey me. It is not safe in the valleys.”
“Which is why I need to hurry. The mist will get them if I don’t reach them first.” He untied the animal and pulled on the lead rope. The water buffalo responded, falling into step behind him.
Grandfather sidled to his left, blocking Bingwen’s path, his face hard now. “You disrespect your elder, child.”
Bingwen stopped and bowed his head, staring at the dirt.
“I disagree with my elder, Grandfather. There is a difference. I have nothing but love and respect for you. You are wise beyond wise. Loyal and of great courage. You find strength despite your injuries. I can only hope to become half the man you are. But virtue does not make a man right every time. Please, Grandfather. Without these soldiers, who will protect us? Who will lead us?”
“If they are injured, Bingwen, they can do neither.”
“We don’t know the severity of their injuries, Grandfather. And even if they are gravely wounded, do we not owe them our lives? If injury discounts a person’s worth, then you and I are worth nothing. We’re the most wounded of our group.”
Grandfather chuckled. “Such a tongue. Look at me, Bingwen.”
Bingwen lifted his head. Grandfather knelt down in front of him, putting a hand behind his head. “I think only of you, little one. I cannot let you go. I could not live with myself if something happened to you.”
“Survival is why I must go, Grandfather. We need these men. Mother and Father are still out there. And right now these soldiers are the only ones trying to bring us all together.”
That gave Grandfather pause. He pursed his lips, considered, then painfully got to his feet. “I will go then.” He held out his hand for the lead rope.
Bingwen sighed. This was wasting time. Every moment counted. “Grandfather, you might be able to walk down this mountain, but you can’t walk back up it. Not yet anyway. Not until you’ve mended. We both know that.”
He didn’t wait for Grandfather to respond; he tugged on the lead rope and led the water buffalo onto the access road.
“And how will you bring back a wounded soldier?” Grandfather asked.