Bit pulls in his line and hurries into the trees, hunkering down in the bushy undergrowth. With a regretful glance at my float, I also haul in, shove my rod into the hidey spot, and squeeze in next to Bit. There’s a special place to hide the rods in an emergency, a bush that’s got tall stalks coming up from the ground. Unless you look closely, the rods are just like all the other stalks.

There’s a throttled cry, then thrashing noises from the bushes up near the street. Grunts, a thud and another cry, of pain this time.

Bit’s face is white, his eyes big. I put a finger to my lips and start to creep out of our hidey spot. Crouched low, I worm myself between tree trunks, pull myself up a dirt ledge, wedge myself behind a mossy stump. My heart is in my throat but my curiosity pushes me on. Up above, and through the trees, I can make out splinters of movement.

Two dark figures – Black Marks. They’re taking turns pounding their fists into something on the ground. From my angle, far below, it looks like they’re furiously beating the earth itself. Except the grunts of pain issuing from that spot tell me it’s not the earth they’re pounding, but a man.

One of the Black Marks stands back. He stretches himself and shakes out his bloody fist. The other keeps pounding. Each time, there’s a cry, yet the sound is getting fainter. His companion, perhaps fed up now, starts walking away. The other man stops his pounding, and stands back to survey his handiwork. The expression on his face is brutal, and he’s panting like an animal in the middle of a kill. There is a moment of deliberation as the Black Mark stares at the ground. Then he aims a swift kick. No responsive grunt now, only silence. Then he too is walking away.

When the Black Marks are far enough away I take a long shuddery breath, then make my way back down the slope to the bushes. My hands are trembling. Bit, knees to his chin, looks up with dark eyes.

“Did you see who?” he whispers, even though they’ve gone.

Crawling in next to him, I shake my head.

“We should go see who it is,” Bit persists. “Might be someone we know.”

Again I shake my head. I don’t want to see. I’ve heard enough.

* * *

That night, I dream about the day my mother was blinded, and the dream is even more real and terrifying than the real event that’s stored in my memory.