The Illegal Read Free

runners.
    Keita shouted into the church, “Marathoners!”
    The hymns stopped abruptly and the choristers hurried out to join him on the porch. Mrs. Pollock put her hand on Keita’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “One day, you’ll run with them.”
    Keita heard Charity compliment Mrs. Pollock on her new blue dress. His sister would say anything to get ahead. She was as thin as he was but several inches taller. She stood like a schoolmaster, hair pulled into a bun, lips taut, chin up, hand on hip. Little Miss Perfect. Even on the newspaper route that the siblings shared, Charity delivered every paper on time and pounded on doors to collect payment. Keita, on the other hand, bribed his friends to help, promising his mother’s cookies and tea. He avoided walking door to door to collect payment, knowing that Charity would pick up the slack.
    From a distance, the pack of runners resembled a cloud of dust in the wind. “Look, Charity,” Keita whispered. “Look at them coming. Look how fast they go.”
    Keita felt a surge of pride. His country produced the fastest marathoners in the world. Zantorolanders had swept first, second and third place last year, two oceans away in the Boston Marathon. Ifyou won Olympic gold for Zantoroland, every citizen would know your name. The president would give you a free house and a hundred thousand dollars. Later, you could have a coaching job for life. You would be world famous, like the Eritrean American marathoner Meb Keflezighi.
    The runners were bunched tightly together. They all wore the same gear: running shoes, white socks, white running shorts stained with the red dust, and the blue-and-red singlets reserved for the top twenty runners in the national marathon squad. The runners spilled along the road like blood out of veins, passing over yet another hill. Brown arms swung in loose unison and legs churned smoothly, feet nearly soundless on the dirt road, apart from the crunching of pebbles. When they were within earshot, Deacon Andrews led the choristers into song with another verse from “Rock My Soul.”
    As the runners drew near, they sang right back:
    So high, you can’t get over it
    So low, you can’t get under it
    So wide, you can’t get around it
    You gotta go through the door.
    The runners sang well and in tune, all twenty of them, raising their hands in salute as they flew past the church. None of them seemed to be suffering. Perhaps it was early in the run. Keita followed every bending knee, every foot touching down only to resume flight. And then, in an instant, the runners rounded a curve in the road and disappeared.
    The choristers went back inside and rehearsed five more songs, and then Deacon Andrews told them to drive straight home. Just to be safe, in case the troublemakers came by again.
    Charity took Keita’s wrist. “Come home,” she said.
    Keita pulled his arm free. “I’ll stay and help the deacon.”
    “Dad and Mom would want you to come home now.”
    “Dad and Mom said I had to come here to clean. To work for my shoes.”
    She touched his wrist again, gently this time. She didn’t usually touch him like that. She gave him a little smile. When she wasn’t trying to rule the world, Charity was a good sister.
    “Brother,” she said. “Come with me.”
    “I’ll be safe. In these shoes, I’m uncatchable.”
    “I’ll tell Mom and Dad to expect you in an hour. Don’t make them wait or worry.” Charity left with the choristers.
    Keita ran his cloth along the varnished pews. The deacon picked up another cloth, and joined him.
    “What is your father up to these days?”
    “Writing,” Keita said. “What else?”
    “He’s the only man who is trying to tell the world about the Faloo people. We used to be looked up to in this country. Politicians, business leaders, shopkeepers. But now we’re in danger. Your father is a great man. Courageous. Some might say too courageous.”
    Keita nodded politely, but he wasn’t sure what that meant.