The Vine Basket Read Online Free PDF

neglected, but useful for the meager crop of grapes they harvested and dried for raisins. And suitable for basket making. Autumn was a good season for gathering branches, Chong Ata always said.
    Mehrigul ran her hands through the tangled thicket of bushes until she found a vine the size she wanted. She pulled it free, stretching it out well over an arm’s length. She tested it, wrapping it around her fist. It did not splinter or break, so it was supple enough to be woven. There would be no time for seasoning the stems as Chong Ata did with the willow he used, drying them and then resoaking them. The vines she picked must be used right away. In less than three weeks Mrs. Chazen would return.
    Mehrigul twisted and bent and ripped at the branch, but she could not break it loose. She should have known there was no way to harvest vine shoots without a knife. She wanted only the small, perfect part of each branch.
    There were three knives in the family: Ana’s cooking knife; Ata’s, which he always carried; and Chong Ata’s, which he used to cut and shape willow branches. There had been a fourth—Memet’s, the one that cut the grapevines for Mrs. Chazen’s basket.
    Mehrigul sank to the ground. Where was Memet now when she needed him so badly?
    Â 
    Mehrigul remembered the night her brother left. It was late August, just before school was to begin. She had heard the roar and sputter of a motorcycle coming down the roadway, bringing Memet home. He’d been spending more and more time with friends, hanging out in cafés, sometimes as far away as Hotan. Ata didn’t like the boys who picked him up on their motorcycles. He was afraid Memet would get into trouble in their company.
    Ata had yelled at Memet when he came through the door. Memet didn’t say anything. He got the
rawap
from its peg on the wall, sat cross-legged on the floor, and began to play and sing.
    Â 
I invited a guest into my home

Asked him to sit in the place of honor

But my guest never left

Now he’s made my home his own
    Â 
    Mehrigul hoped Memet hadn’t sung this song in front of a Chinese person who understood Uyghur; the guest who would never leave was the Han Chinese.
    Memet stopped singing but his fingers still plucked at the strings, the notes sliding in and out of shifting scales. “We Uyghurs are slaves to the Han,” he declared. “There’s no place for us here anymore.”
    The notes had slowed to a fragile, mournful sound that seemed to come from Memet’s heart. “There is no place for
me
here,” he said. “I must know what else is out there, where my hope lies.
    â€œI’ll be back,” he’d said. “Someday.”
    Sleep had not come to Mehrigul that night. Maybe she’d known there would be no other goodbye from Memet—that he would not be there in the morning. She hadn’t been surprised to hear a scuffling of feet on their earthen floor, the creak of door hinges. She’d bolted from her platform and followed him, not caring that she was in her sleep clothes.
    â€œMemet. Wait,” she’d whispered loudly, running to catch up with him.
    He stopped but did not turn to look at her.
    Mehrigul grabbed his arm. Felt him shaking. He put his hand over hers and led her to the road where his friend was waiting, standing beside his silent motorcycle.
    â€œYusup, this is my sister,” Memet said.
    â€œSalam,”
his friend replied, making no effort to hide his impatience. “Memet, we must leave. Let’s go.”
    â€œNo.” The firmness in her own voice startled her. Something bad had happened. She had to know.
    Memet held his palm out to Yusup. “She’ll keep our secret,” he said as he bent toward her. “But no one, not Ata,
no one
must know what I’m telling you. They must only know I’ve left. If Ata tries to find out whether they’ve captured me, he’ll get in trouble. End up in prison