As I tried to shake as much water off our belongings as possible, Jan sat on a small, worn wooden bench. My brother watched the relentless rain, deep in thought, and listened to the raindrops beating against the ground and the whistling of the wind. He was more engaged by this performance Nature was putting on, than he had ever been by cartoons on television.
When the rain let up, we stepped out of the shelter to damp cool air and soggy earth and gravel under our shoes. The sky remained overcast; clouds were still hovering overhead. They seemed to be biding their time.
Then we heard a hair-raising sound of wild barking. I soon spotted some massive black dogs in the distance. They were roaming about some trees near a man-made cliff constructed of junk and concrete near the edge of the water. I assumed they had an owner; a couple were leashed to a tree. A few of their mates, however, seemed to be strays. None of them seemed very happy with our presence.
A couple of the feral beasts, still snarling, began to trot towards us. I was not sure what I was supposed to do. It is said that when you are confronted with a dog, running is the most unwise thing to do. (I am, in general, not frightened of dogs. Though if the dogs in question happen to be big, sinewy and hostile creatures, I might be excused for not wanting to frolic with them.)
The last thing I wanted was to provoke them. Odds were, they would be picking their teeth with our bones before either of us had a fighting chance to escape, and then we would be posthumous headlines in the news.
Jan stood there, waiting for my cue, watching the prowling dogs with languid interest. He is not overly fond of animals and I thought that he would be anxious to get away, but to my surprise he stayed perfectly calm.
In the end, after staying frozen for some twenty minutes or so, I very gingerly led my brother to back away down a lane of gravel.
The 7th Step
The episode reminded me of another canine encounter from our childhood. I had been about eight and Jan three. With mum busy at home, our father had brought us to the playground in the late evening.
There was no one else there except a young woman walking her two tiny fluffy grey dogs. I am not sure if they were Schnauzers; I am not a good judge of dog breeds. Before we knew it, the two charming little things somehow got loose from their mistress and arrowed towards us. I grabbed Jan’s hand, and we ran.
Our pursuers barked and snarled and hounded us for all they were worth. In hindsight, I suppose it would have been the funniest thing to an onlooker passing by; two children running pell-mell from two small yapping plush toys.
At the time, though, I was terrified. My little brother was squealing in fright. Our father’s and the dog-owner’s voices were drowned out by the barking, which sounded to me like the roar of dragons.
As we were rounding a corner at the playground, I stumbled and fell. Jan tumbled after me. As the dogs bounded up to us still snarling and snapping, I was convinced they were going to eat us.
As it was, dad came just in time to gather us up and the young woman managed to retrieve her little monsters, apologising profusely. Dad laughed at us and ruffled our hair, telling us not to be afraid and that those dogs would not bite.
My father is very proud of this tale of my derring-do and fond of telling it. He said that as we were running and even after I had taken the tumble, I had not let go of my little brother’s hand. At the time I had not really understood why he was so proud of me. I was sour at being laughed at.
The eight-year-old me had not thought anything when I had grabbed my brother’s hand. I had not even thought, “If I leave him behind, the dogs will get him”. It had been something instinctive, an instant understanding that we both had to run for it. It was only later, when my father pointed it out when recounting the story to my mother, that I remembered feeling bemused and thinking, “But the dogs would have caught and eaten him if I hadn’t pulled him along. He’s small and might have run the wrong way.”
Of course, I, the heroine, had tripped and fallen smack into the sand and had successfully managed to drag my brother down to boot, but I suppose it is the thought that counts. Still, it was a good thing that by the time we met the dogs at Ubin, I was somewhat wiser than when I was eight.
The 8th Step
The sunwalks gifted us with an exceptional sense of freedom. Ironically, they also made me realise that I am never really at ease whenever Jan and I have to pass crowded places.
It is not because my brother is autistic, or that I feel awkward or fearful of people’s reactions to some of his more irregular habits. The truth is, I cannot completely relax as I am always mentally braced for problems to arise, in case anyone tries to antagonise Jan. We have come across some unlovely characters on the streets.
When we sit in fast food places, for example, my brother would take his time with his usual ice-cream sundae. He would take a bite of ice-cream and chocolate fudge, then stare into the distance chewing, before taking another bite. One fine day, Jan happened to stare in the direction of a stout, tanned fellow
