Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(6)
Though Nason was only two years younger than Livia, she was small for her age and not very strong. Livia worried about her. She had seen what happened to the smallest piglets in the litters born to the village sows. Denied access to their mothers’ teats by their greedy brothers and sisters, the little ones quickly weakened, and it was never long before the villagers butchered them for their scant meat. Livia hated it. She would push away the stronger siblings so the little ones could get a turn at a teat—she would even feed them herself—but it was never enough. She knew Nason needed someone to help her, too. But their parents were too busy to give the girls much attention, and their brother Zanu, fifteen, handsome, and already the topic of marriage gossip in the village, couldn’t be bothered. Livia would have to protect Nason herself.
One night, lying on the pallet she shared with Nason, separated from the rest of the hut by a curtain, she heard her parents talking in low voices about the government in Bangkok, how it was trying to stop the hill tribes from farming by their traditional method of cutting and burning. Something about the environment. Her mother was frightened. How would they eat? Her father said they would have to find the girls jobs. Livia didn’t think that sounded so terrible, but for some reason her mother strongly protested, even daring to raise her voice. But Livia’s father silenced her by asking if she would rather see her children starve.
Nason stirred. Livia handed her the small wooden protection Buddha she had carved herself, and which they both liked to keep by the pallet. Sometimes holding the Buddha helped Nason sleep. Then Livia stroked her hair to soothe her, but Nason’s eyelids fluttered open. She moaned and rubbed her stomach.
“Here, little bird,” Livia whispered, reaching into a small shoulder bag. “I saved this for you.”
It was a durian fruit, Nason’s favorite. Livia had found it deep in the forest, fallen and overlooked by others foraging for food. She had badly wanted to eat it herself, but knew Nason might wake up hungry.
“No, Labee,” Nason said, calling Livia by her Lahu name. “It’s yours. You need it, too.”
“I don’t. I had some already. I’m full.”
She knew Nason didn’t believe her. But was there anything more persuasive than hunger?
Nason looked longingly at the fruit. “We’ll share it, then.”
Livia nodded and took a small bite. And made sure Nason ate the rest, encouraging her to go slowly so it would last.
When the durian was gone, she snuggled closer to Nason and put her arms around her. And somehow, despite the hunger, despite her parents’ frightening words, when she heard Nason softly snoring again, she slept, too.
The men came not long after.
Livia and Nason were out playing, as their father had directed them. Livia was laughing at the way Nason was shimmying her body like a fish when they heard an unfamiliar sound—a car engine. Livia looked up and saw a rusting white van bouncing toward them along the rutted dirt road, a plume of dust behind it. She and Nason stopped their game and stood, watching.
The van slowed and crept closer, stopping just in front of them. Three men got out. Livia immediately disliked them—they looked crafty, like slinking dogs hoping to steal a morsel. One of them, taller than the other two and with prominent cheekbones that made him look like a skull with eyes, was holding a photograph—the photograph that belonged to her mother, Livia realized in confusion. One of the villagers who had a camera had taken the photo a year earlier, then had it developed for their mother in nearby Chiang Rai. The photo was of Livia with her arms around Nason in front of their hut, both in their finest clothes—brightly colored embroidered dresses, the traditional garb of their people. Her mother treasured that photo and kept it in the cooking area in a jar to protect it from dampness. How did these men get it? And what were they doing with it?
The skull man looked at the photo, then at Livia and Nason, then at the photo again. He nodded to the other two men, then began walking toward the hut. One of the two, who had a dirty, patchy beard, followed him. The other, whose shaved head was overlarge and unnaturally square, stepped forward and grabbed Nason by the wrist. Nason whimpered and tried to jerk free, but the man simply turned and began pulling her toward the van. Too startled to think, Livia grabbed Nason’s other wrist and pulled in the opposite direction, at the same time calling out to her parents, her voice high and frightened. For a moment, the man dragged both of them along, but then Livia planted her feet and strained harder, and managed to stop the man from any further progress. But the bearded man must have come up behind Livia, because he threw an arm around her waist and hoisted her into the air, breaking her grip. Enveloped by the stink of vinegary sweat, Livia scratched the man’s arm from elbow to shoulder. He cried out in anger and she tried to scratch him again, but he wrapped his arms around her and began carrying her toward the van. She panicked and tried to break loose but couldn’t. Then she saw that the other man had picked up Nason, too. She stopped struggling—she would never let anyone take Nason without going with her—but she screamed for her parents.
She twisted in the man’s arms and craned her neck, and saw them. They had come to the door of the hut, but they were just standing there, watching, doing nothing. Zanu came and looked, too, but their father pushed him back inside. And then her mother turned away, sobbing, and her father simply motioned to the men with a backward flick of his fingers. Livia was beyond terror now . . . why weren’t her parents doing anything? She couldn’t understand. It didn’t make any sense.