No one moved. The old woman who had given the soldiers clothes bowed her head and offered a prayer. The others looked worried and defeated again. The small light of hope the soldiers had given them was extinguished in an instant. Grandfather put a hand on Bingwen's shoulder and kneeled in front of him. "There's nothing we can do, Bingwen."
Bingwen recoiled a step, shrugging off Grandfather's hand. "They saved my life." He turned toward the others. "They saved all of our lives. Aren't we going to do something?"
No one spoke.
Grandfather's voice was calm. He reached out again. "Bingwen, listen--"
"No," Bingwen said, jumping back. He took a few steps away, facing everyone. "We can't leave them out there to die."
"If they were shot down, they're already dead," said another of the women. "There's nothing we can do."
"We don't know that," said Bingwen. "They might be hurt. I saw where it went down. I can take us straight there."
The old man with the bag of clothes said, "They said they would be coming back. They said they would send help our way. Doctors and supplies. Now help won't be coming."
"He's right," said his wife. "No one is coming with supplies now."
"Is anyone even listening to me?" said Bingwen.
"We listened, boy," said the old woman. "You told us what we needed to know, now let the grown-ups talk for a minute."
The teenage girl was at the open windows, looking down at the valley below. "Look," she said, pointing downward. Everyone came over. Bingwen muscled his way to the front and looked down. Several of the alien aircraft had landed in the valley and opened their doors. Aliens were stepping out into the rice fields, shooting out mists from their backpacks. The rice shoots withered and turned black as the mist wafted over them. The aliens were over three hundred meters away, well out of earshot, but the old woman spoke in a hushed tone anyway. "That's the mist the soldier spoke of."
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."
T
he 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."