Mountains and Valleys
by John Cuando
Text Copyright © 2011 John Cuando
All Rights Reserved
Smashwords Edition
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The story contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.
Also by John Cuando
Out of Place – collection of short stories
Abdi – short story
Mountains and Valleys
by John Cuando
Amidst the small, ragged willow trees, surrounded by salmon-pink mounds of shale from the blast furnaces of Llanwern steelworks, Paul sat, uneasily surveying his mountains and valleys. Through the drizzle, he eyed the entrance to the railway underpass for signs of the Allway boys, older and bigger than him. If they appeared, he could be through the fence and out of sight in a matter of seconds, but if they surprised him, that would be different. But there was no way they could get across the lines and anyway there were stingies all up the bank.
He put his foot on the first of the big nails someone had left in his tree and pulled himself up, sitting on the plywood wedged in the crown. He took out his penknife and picked up another spike. It was satisfying to strip the soft bark and cut deeply into the sticky wood, and at two foot, this was the longest yet. It would make a good flying arrow, he thought, and started scraping the shaft. He rounded off the tail, split it twice, and carefully slotted in two folded football cards, tying off the end with string. Indians would have used feathers. He made a notch just ahead of the flights and wound the pull around the shaft. The drizzle had stopped.
He dropped the arrow to the ground, swung out onto the branch and letting go one hand at a time, landed heavily on the top of the shale tump. Triumphant, he hurried down the slope, sliding through the wet loose flakes. As he heard the train approaching he picked up a handful of stones, immediately dropping all but the heaviest. He knew from the rumble it was limestone so the waggons would be open and you could try to get one in. Once he’d thrown a stone right over the top and someone threw another one back. That was the first time he knew there were kids on the other side. The train was fast and the piece of slag clanged off the front of the waggon and shot away much faster to the right, but the second one went straight in. “Back to the works!”, he shouted.
Paul picked up his arrow and looking at the clearing sky, crouched down and began to move invisibly between the tumps towards the road. Twice he crawled close to the top and scanned the distant houses. It was too early to go home. You can’t throw flying arrows in the street because it’s dangerous and if you do it in the park, the parkie will shout at you. But there’s a place at the end of Greenmeadow Avenue where there’s a gap and you can get onto a path. There’s a huge field that has a bull in it, sometimes, but you can throw arrows there. You have to jump a reen to get into the field though and there’s not much run. But Paul was a good jumper and knew the best place to go. Sometimes there was a plank and you could walk across.
The path was muddy and Paul knew he’d be in trouble with his Mam. There were lots of things that upset his Mam and once he’d spent his pocket money on a handkerchief for her and she’d started crying. Just in time he thought. He crossed the reen and staying close to the edge of the field looked around for the bull. Satisfied it was clear, he wrapped the pull of the arrow around his first finger and held the arrow like a javelin about a third of the way from the point. Running forward like a bushman, he launched the arrow into space with a satisfying whizz as the pull twisted it soaring skywards leaving him with the loose string hanging from his finger. He watched it climb in a great arc, stall, then plummet into the ground point first. Perfect. But a crossbow would be better.
He looked into the distance at the yellow sulphur haze over the trees towards the steelworks and remembered that his dad would be home soon. The arrow was stuck in vertically and as he pulled it out, he could see that both cards were still fixed tight but the point was broken. As he walked back along the overgrown path he rewound the string, ducking his head to avoid the encroaching hawthorns and skipping the pools of dark mud. He emerged into the light of Greenmeadow Avenue just in time to see the green Vauxhall Victor go by and he broke into a run, the arrow gripped tightly in his left hand.
At the corner he scraped his shoes on the curb and used his finger to wipe the mud out of the slot where the sole had come away. One last check in his pocket for the penknife and he broke into a run counting each lamp-post as ten. At fifty he slowed down, glided to the back door where he put the arrow by the step, and hurried in to sit down to eat.
His dad came in a minute later.
As the bell went, he rushed out of the classroom door down to the bikes, jumping on at a run and peddled furiously out of the gates. This time he went the long way round – they’d surely be waiting the quick way. The road had been resurfaced the long way so the bike would skid if he had to turn sharply but that was OK because the cowhorn handlebars let him get low down on the pedals and push the back wheel out like the speedway. If he could get to the corner before they made it out of the school gate, he’d be passed the Man of Steel before they’d get to the green so he’d be out of the avenue before they could catch him.
Yesterday, he’d come the usual way and just avoided the big kids at the green. Of the three ways home, the quickest was through the green and he’d had a fight there once. He won. Maybe not this time though.
As he passed the pub he looked behind and saw two kids chasing him. If someone got down by the shops before him he might have to stop, then there’d be a fight.
As he turned the corner, there he was standing in the middle of the road waiting with his bike on the floor. Paul peddled as fast as he could swerving across both sides of the road then at the last minute changed directions and put his foot out catching him on the shoulder and sending him tumbling onto his bike.
As he passed the junction Paul could see three or four more kids gaining on him so he raced on up the road and walked through the back door barely five minutes after he’d left school.
His dad, opened the front door and looked at the boys on bikes waiting. They sloped away back up the road muttering darkly.
“Go on then! Go and sort them out! Or do you want to run again tomorrow, and the day after that?” said his dad imperiously.
“I can’t. They’re better fighters than I am” Paul said.
“So go and fight them and lose! They won’t chase you if you don’t run,” he said.
Paul went out the back door weeping with hurt pride. He cycled back up to the pub and found three of them. He skidded to a halt and said “Come on then” hoping none of them would. One did.
As he stepped forward Paul ran at him and hit him hard on the nose before he had a chance to raise his hands. Blood streamed down over his chin and his eyes filled with tears. Paul hit him again, this time hard in his mouth and when it was obvious he was no longer in any danger he turned to the others and this time said “Anyone else?”. There was no-one else.
As he came back in the back door his dad inspected his knuckles and smiled when he saw the skin missing and blood on his finger. He reached into his pocket and handed over half a crown. “Don’t ever run from a fight again. Stand your ground and you’ll never get bullied!” he said. “Sometimes you’ll lose, but you’ll never lose your self-respect”. And it seemed the matter was closed.
Paul went into the living room shaking, scared, proud, confused. Why was he being chased, why did they want to hit him? Why did he have to fight? Is this what always happens? Then he remembered the arrow outside the back door and went to get his penknife. While he sat on the back step whittling a new point, he thought about the half a crown.
The End
About John Cuando
We don't belong to a culture, we share it with so many others from different places and times. We never leave our past behind, it remains as part of where and who we are and we carry it forward to inspire and inform ourselves and others. If we're smart, we open our minds to the experience of others and learn to appreciate our own. For John Cuando, that's why he writes - to explore, to learn, to appreciate, and to share ideas with readers. He hopes you have enjoyed this story and will enjoy more of his work in the future.