Fish Read Free Page A

“Surely that's too much for one little donkey to carry,” which is what I used to say when I first saw the donkeys working here. But I couldsee that our load was about a quarter of the size of those which these little creatures normally carried.
    Sometimes you would just see the huge bundles— firewood, or, recently, household belongings—coming down the street and only when they got close could you see the donkey's tiny legs and forehead and tail sticking out from underneath it all.
    The donkey stood there patiently, as they do, while the man hauled and pushed the load around, at one point giving the bag on one side a shove that I thought would roll the donkey over sideways, but it just staggered a little and found its balance again.
    The man turned and smiled at me when he saw me coming.
    “This is our guide, who is also kindly lending us his donkey,” said Dad, also adding the man's name, which I decided I would never be able to pronounce.
    “Don't worry about the donkey, little one,” the guide said unexpectedly, reading my thoughts. “She trusts me.”
    I wasn't too sure about the “little one” remark.
    “They call me Tiger,” I said, with my chin lifting a little.
    “Tiger,” he said, trying not to look surprised, “and why do they call such a little … why do they call you that?”
    “I wasn't very big, or very well, when I was born,” I said, “but Dad says I was a real fighter. Of course, I'm much bigger now. And strong as anyone.”
    The man had a way of seeming to look right into you, if you know what I mean—like your mother might do if you say you've tidied your room when you haven't. But his eyes were quite friendly, all the same.
    “But that is not your real name,” he said, with his eyebrows rising. “Your mother said you were called—”
    I hated my proper name.
    “You can call me Tiger,” I said quickly.
    “And you can call me Guide. It's easier than remembering my name,” he said graciously, turning away to put a last strap in place. Once again, he seemed to have read my thoughts.
    Mum and Dad smiled at each other after thisexchange between us, and Mum passed my very small bag to me. Then she saw the pot.
    “Oh! I was going to say, put the bag on your back. But you—you
did
catch it?”
    The Guide turned.
    “What have you got there, little—er—Tiger?”
    I was suddenly rather shy about my fish. I kept the pot by my side for a moment and then thought it would be rude not to offer to show the Guide, and held it out toward him.
    “Oh no,” groaned Dad, “it's a fish. It's my fault. I said the water would be gone soon and the fish would die, and now,
obviously,
we have to save it.”
    “Why, yes, of course you do,” nodded the Guide seriously, looking into my pot and missing the expression on Dad's face, behind his shoulder.
    “That is a beautiful, bright specimen, Tiger. I don't know that I have seen one so colorful. A little on the small side, but that is to be expected.” The Guide sighed, looking around at the shabby house, the dirt track and the mud-brown, bare landscape.
    “It seemed bigger when I saw it at first,” I said, almost apologetically, “but I suppose at least it can fit in the pot.”
    “Hmm—the pot. So we need to get a lid for that, to stop the water spilling,” and he turned and directed these last words toward my mother, who, under the calm, inquiring eyes of the Guide, made no more fuss, but went into the kitchen and fetched a lid that would fit.
    “Will it be able to breathe like that?” I asked, as the Guide fished two elastic bands from somewhere deep within his pockets and put them around both pot and lid for extra safety.
    “It is not ideal, but then none of this is,” he said, casting a hand around to include the donkey, us and the whole area—and I understood him to mean this situation, his country's problems, and maybe Life, all with that one movement of his hand.
    “Every time we stop, you can take off the lid and let in a