Chapter 3.
Little Soldier.
A'di brought him a leather-bound book one morning.
Bucky held it gingerly in his hand, running his thumb over the old cover. Its pages were red, its spine worn out. He always thought of himself as a simple person, rational, grounded in reality, but the book felt too heavy. He was holding something important, something mystical, and it was more like she had put a grenade in his hand.
"It is a memoir written by Oshe, a treasured ancestor of the Border tribes," A'di explained. "I have to meet with the king now, but when I return, I will read some of it for you. I think you will like the story he told."
Bucky sat on the bed, alternating between eating berries and trying to decipher the dense, handwritten passages in the memoir. It was impossible to do both with one hand. His alphabet chart could only get him so far, and it was difficult to keep track of what he translated in his head. But he had nothing else to do. It seemed as worthy a task as any. A'di was right about him needing something else to occupy his mind. He quickly became consumed by it.
He toiled through the pages, translating the title and scanning the first paragraph, picking out words that seemed to repeat. But words could mean two or three things depending on the context, and which part of Wakanda the author was from. Roughly half of them had no direct translation. Having the alphabet chart on the wall was nearly useless. It was worse when it was scribbled like this, not printed, not neat and uniform.
When A'di returned, it was late evening.
She brought him a loaf of berry bread, taking a small chunk for herself. "From the border," she said, "Some of the elders in the Border tribes have been baking these breads for over seventy years. It is considered an art and a treasured tradition in Wakanda."
Bucky liked the banana bread better, but he nodded along with her explanation.
"How are you liking the book?" she said.
Bucky habitually traced the patterns pressed into the memoir. Everything in this country was an artform – the furniture in his room, the uniforms the warriors wore, the way A'di did her hair every morning. He thought it was odd at first, seeing the blend of old school and modern ways of living, but now he understood that Wakanda was evolving without sacrificing its foundation.
He lacked the words to tell A'di what he was thinking. He just said, "No pictures."
A'di smiled. "No pictures."
"I think I have the title. Life of a fence."
A'di laughed, the music in her voice ushering away more of the darkness his recent activation had created. "You are very close. Remember, some words mean many things. The title is, 'Life on the Border.' It is from the Border tribes, and this book tells of life long ago, before many of the events that shaped the Wakanda you are seeing today. I read it often."
She sat on the edge of his bed, explaining the format of the days and years at the tops of the pages, how the author used abbreviations for locations. She told him stories, many from memory, and she spoke with such enthusiasm and reverence that he found himself paying more attention to her animated face than anything she was saying. A'di talked about culture, history, the evolution of the language as it took on influences from their neighbors.
When she stopped, she was a quarter through the book.
A'di said, "I apologize. You must be tired. I have held you captive with these stories."
"How did you say his name again? The author?"
"Oshe."
"Oshe," Bucky repeated, in a poor imitation of her accent.
A'di laughed. "We will have to work on speaking once you know your letters." She produced a notepad and pen from the excessively large front pocket of her dress. "I expect this to be full when I return."
XxXxX
Bucky paused his writing when the door opened. He had a spray of papers on his little table, all of them full of symbols, drawn over and over again in lines down the pages.
"You have been busy," Shuri said, looking over his shoulder. Ayo was by her side.
He said, "A'di thinks I should learn Wakandan."
Shuri smiled, picking up a page. "It is much harder to write than it is to speak. You are doing well, for an American."
"I'll take that."
Shuri hesitated, sounding suddenly younger, "How are you?"
He had been thinking about what he would say to her. He had not seen Shuri since what happened on the table, since she played the words and he fell to pieces. He knew A'di was reporting on his condition, and Ayo had been to visit, telling him that Shuri was worried. It was clear in her face. She felt guilty. Bucky reminded himself that she was a kid, no matter how smart she was, how grown-up she acted.
He said, "I'm okay. I'm sorry about that."
"I am the one who should be apologizing," she said, though she seemed relieved. "I should not have pushed you. I could see how nervous you were. I will find another way to study your condition."
"No. We can do it again."
"You broke your wrist to get out of that restraint."
Bucky held up his hand, "All better."
Shuri took his wrist delicately, turning it this way and that, wonder in her face. "Remarkable. I knew this would heal quickly, but to see it in action… I would very much like to study your abilities in the future, if you are amiable."
"If you fix my head, you can do whatever you want."
She said, "I will hold you to that. For now, I am still analyzing the data I obtained from our last session. I will let you know if and when we need to do it again. I will try to make it unnecessary."
He gave a reassuring smile, which faded the moment they left the room. He thought of the table, the straps, the electricity, the words, and shuddered. What he said to Ayo had never been truer. I want to be free.
XxXxX
Bucky sat on his bed, his left shoulder wedged into the corner. He had his legs crossed, relaxed for once, tossing the ball in a perfect cycle from the ceiling to the floor. He barely slept, plagued with nightmares, finding solace in the rhythmic motion of catching and throwing. His head was getting worse, the memories of bloodshed growing more profound – and the fear of going back to that table mounting. It was easier to stay awake, to face the headaches, the stiff muscles, the disapproving looks from A'di, than to see what horrors his mind had queued up for the night.
It was easier to pretend that he was fine than to admit he was crumbling.
A'di came with his breakfast, admiring the entire notepad he had filled with scribbles meant to imitate Wakandan letters. He was getting better, closer, but the symbols were not natural to him.
Bucky paused his game, catching the ball and rolling it on his thigh. "If you're a teacher, why are you here, bringing me food?"
"I volunteered."
"Why?"
A'di picked up the notepad, flipping through it, occasionally raising her eyebrows in appreciation. "It is rare that an outsider is allowed sanctuary in Wakanda. I thought you must be someone special."
"You hid your disappointment really well."
She laughed, coming to sit beside him on the bed, mimicking his posture with her legs crossed beneath a puffy pink dress. Her hair was especially elaborate today – a dozen braids fastened in a cascade along the sides of her head, a little blue hat shaped like a boat sitting precariously on top. She had woven beads and colorful shells into the braids, and she had one stunning blue feather tucked behind her ear.
Bucky had gotten over the initial culture shock of the way the Wakandans dressed, learning to appreciate it. A'di liked to make herself a work of art.
"What does this say?" A'di asked, handing the notepad to him.
"Uh, something, I hope. I was trying to say, 'Why is it always cold in here?'"
"It says, 'Why cold for today?'"
"I think that gets the point across."
"You are learning, so I will forgive that." A'di took the pad back, continuing through it. "Do not be discouraged. You have shown promising growth so far, and I am patient."
"You barely answered my question. You came here to see me, but why did you stay?"
A'di gave him a long look, so close that he noticed a tiny scar in her right eye.
She said, "Shuri thought I might help you recover."
"Why?"
A'di whacked him in the shoulder, "What do you mean, 'why?' I am a pleasure to be around. You should be so lucky!"
Bucky laughed, some of the darkness dissipating. A'di was beautiful. She had a radiant presence, an easy smile. She was almost the female, Wakandan version of Steve, only less troubled, less conflicted, and less beefy.
"Besides," A'di went on, "I have nothing else to do right now. You are just as much my distraction as I am yours. In the Border tribe, they give the children a break to help their parents with the harvest. It against my nature to be idle."
A few memories surfaced. "It's called summer vacation in America. When I was a kid, I played stickball almost every day. I actually met Steve after a game. He was getting beat up by some other kids. He was really small for his age, you know, scrawny."
"How old were you?"
"Thirteen, I think. It must have been… early thirties."
"Did you help him?"
He saw that alley, saw that kid, in a brief and overwhelming vision. Steve was only a couple years younger than Bucky, but half his size. He was nowhere near big enough to put up a fight against one kid, let alone three. Bucky had kicked the others to the curb and helped Steve up. He introduced himself the way he always introduced himself, even when he became an icon, a hero. It was just Steve.
Bucky said, "Yeah… had no quit in him. Still doesn't."
"Are you okay?" A'di said.
Bucky had a tear going down his face. He wiped it away, letting his head fall back against the wall. "Yeah I just… I have a hard time figuring out which memories are real, and which I made up from seeing the museum stuff. Steve told me some stories on the way here. I think some of it is just… gone. Whatever they did to my head must have broken something."
"You remember the song, though, right?"
"I lost it."
Bucky felt like he was reporting the death of a family member. It might as well be. He remembered that his mother died over his first deployment, that he was denied permission to go home to attend her funeral. As far as he knew, there were no more pictures of her. He had been tempted to ask the Wakandans if they could search, if they could find some record of her, something she wrote, something that belonged to her.
Despite the fear that he might not recognize her, Bucky would give anything to see her again. He could take the grief, trade the pain for some sense of normalcy. Even hearing her voice had made him feel like the person he'd been was still in there somewhere.
Hearing the words on the table had stolen the song.
"I think I remember how it went." A'di started humming the tune. Bucky's chest tightened. She sang, "Little, little soldier, standing on the mantle, letter in his left hand, in the right a candle."
Bucky was struck by it, the words spilling out from memory, "Little soldier leaves home, a boat from New York Harbor, his candle burning brightly, on the stormy water."
He gasped, breathless.
"It sounds like a sad song," A'di said.
"I wish I knew."
Bucky felt like someone had punched him. It did sound morose, sad, like it might end with the soldier never making it home. With the words came the sound of her voice. He could take whatever memory was attached to the soldier song. He just wanted to see her face. He just wanted to remember what it felt like to be someone's son.
A'di took his hand, holding it tightly in both of hers. "We will know when you remember the rest of it. I will help you."
"This is unrelated," Bucky said. "But how long did it take you to do that to your hair?"
"If you ask me that one more time, I will shave yours off."