The Child's Elephant (19 page)

Where was Muka? He ducked down and listened but his heart was drumming so hard he could hear nothing else. His eyes scanned the grasslands but the sun, dipping at that moment below the rocky horizon, suddenly let the night loose. Darkness stampeded across the sky.

Looping back the way he had come, Bat stole through the brush. He could hear his cattle, confused and frightened, trotting about calling for each other and for their scattered calves. Bat felt as bewildered as they did. He wanted to cry out. ‘Muka!’ he wanted to shout. ‘Muka! Where are you?’ But he knew that he had to be wary if he wanted to help her. Step by slow prowling step, he crept on.

Suddenly, not so far from him, an engine started up. He thought he heard scuffles and a low muffled cry. Was that Muka? It must be. They must have caught her. They must be trying to take her away. Once they had left, thought Bat, he would never be able to find her. He had to act now if he wanted to save her.

He had no plan in his head as he dashed blindly in the direction of the sound. Hard ruts of earth bruised
the soles of his feet. He was on the track. A glare of light struck him as he raced straight down the middle. The roar of the engine throbbed louder and louder. He was dazzled. He flung up an arm to protect his face. The lights were almost upon him. He could see nothing but their burning ferocity.

A cow, lost in the commotion, stepped straight out in front of him. There was a sickening thud and, even as he stared horrified, arms were circling about him. The grip that held him was strong as a waterfall. He could see the silvery flank of the fallen animal heaving up and down before him. A back leg looked broken. A jag of pale bone glistened amid the dark blood. A single dark eye gazed up into the night. Bat could hear the low groaning. It was Kila – Kila, his favourite . . . the cow he had grown up with, who had wandered beside him for as long as he could remember . . . It was Kila, the cow he would never have killed. Something gave way inside him. It was as if the string of a tightened bow had just snapped. He fell limp. By the light of the headlamps, he met Kila’s dying gaze. It was the soft purple colour of a jacaranda’s petals. He watched her eye as it filmed and then flickered and closed.

Bat was thrown to the ground. The fall jarred his shoulder and bruised his thin ribs. A wedge of rough cloth was shoved into his mouth. It cut into the corners of his lips. His arms were yanked behind his back. Then a rope was flung around him and tugged until his elbows almost touched. He tried to move: it hurt so badly that he almost screamed aloud. Knots bit into his wrists. Then his ankles were bound and he was left lying
among the grasses. Were they going to abandon him? Were they going to leave him to be eaten by wild beasts? Three shadowy figures stood upright. One wiped his brow while another wandered off. A knife was drawn. Bat could see the wink of its blade. They were going to kill him. The fear scudded through his brain. He was about to die.

‘Shut it up,’ a voice ordered.

One of the figures stepped over to the cow. The knife was for Kila. He heard steel ripping flesh and then the groaning stopped. The blade flashed in the headlights as the carcass was rapidly butchered. Bat smelled the stench of the guts as they slopped onto the dirt, and into his mind came a picture of Kila ambling off in the morning towards the savannah, his baby elephant shambling slowly behind her, the tip of its trunk curled comfortingly around her tail. The image passed through his head like a reflection that slides across water. It was a picture from another time, another place, another world.

Bat could feel his mind slowing. It was as if everything had stopped moving. His arms were pulled back so tightly that he could hardly breathe without hurting. He tried to turn over, but it only made it worse. Needles seemed to be jabbing where his joints should have rolled and for a while his mind vanished. He didn’t know where it went.

The next thing Bat knew, he was being hurled into the back of a jeep. The pain jagged through his shoulder; it burst in sharp flashes against the backs of his eyes, but the cloth in his mouth soaked up the sound
of his shouts. He could taste the fear at the back of his throat and for a moment he was terrified that he was going to choke. Panic surged through his veins, bursting his arteries and leaking into his guts. He gasped frantically for air, but tasted only gasoline. It burned his lips. He felt his whole stomach heave.

A torch-beam was flung quickly around the interior and, in the brief flash of light, Bat saw Muka lying motionless in a corner, her wrap rucked up around her, her eyes closed in a face that was flung back on its neck. Was she dead? Her legs and arms, like his, were bound; and she too was gagged. The rough knots were biting into the soft flesh of her nape. That must mean she was living. Otherwise why would they tie her? But then why had they captured them? What did they want with them? The questions raced back and forth.

Bat gave up trying to catch them. Something heavy was flung into the jeep beside him. It landed with a thud. He felt a warm dampness seeping into his shirt. The boy shuddered. There was another soft
thunk
. It was Kila, he thought. They had carved her up into chunks. Then the door slammed. The darkness was complete. The engine roared into life. He could feel it juddering in every muscle of his body. The side of his head rattled against a ridged metal floor. And then for a while he felt nothing any more.

When Bat came round again, with a nod so sharp that it felt as if his neck would crack, he realized that he was travelling, but he had no idea for how long. It was still dark. The cords round his wrists cut into his flesh and made him want to cry out. Dust clogged his breathing,
but when he tried to suck air through his gag, nothing came. He pulled at the thin strand of air that was filtering in through his nostrils. Only this one faltering thread linked him to his own life. It could break any moment.

He tried to stretch out his fingers, to see if he could touch Muka; but all he could feel was his own fumbling grasp. His hands seemed strange and fleshy, as if they didn’t belong to him. Something crawled across his scalp but he didn’t know what. And then the jeep bumped over a ridge and, hitting his head, he lost consciousness again.

He thought he must have passed in and out of blackness several times. Everything was muddled. A thirst raged in his throat. Sometimes he tried to remember a tune to sing. He thought it would lure his spirit into calm. But no song ever came. He heard only his heart pounding. He expected to die. Clenching his tied fists, he tried to steady his breathing. Like a man who, hand over hand, inches across a swaying rope bridge, he refused to look down and stare into the abyss. He could not afford to start sobbing. He could not afford to let go of the thin line of his breath. Where were they going? he wondered. But the question just drifted. And after a while he discovered that peculiar feeling of safety that arises from knowing that the worst that could happen is already taking place.

Once, the jeep stopped. The engine was cut. He could hear the noises of the African night, rising and falling and swarming giddily about. He tried to pick out the individual voices . . . the shrill of cicadas . . . the
tok tok
of the nightjar . . . the
skreak
of a bat . . . but they all got mixed up. They were melted down by his brain. He could hear people speaking, but he couldn’t tell what they were saying. The tailgate opened. He saw the tip of a cigarette glowing like the eye of a crocodile in the night. The cow’s meat was pulled out. The door slammed again . . . then laughter and snatches of conversation . . . then a pause that lasted for what might have been minutes but could equally well have gone on for several hours.

When the door opened again, a hand shoved him. They were checking that he was still there and alive, he supposed. He writhed against the knots, but the shooting pains in his arms soon made him give up. A hard smell of alcohol mixed with the fumes of diesel and cigarette smoke. Then the tailgate was slammed and locked. He felt the hot uproar of the engine through the metal. Once more, they were off.

They were still driving as the day dawned. Light filtered in through the hood of the jeep which Bat could now see had been made from bent branches with a sheet of brown tarpaulin stretched over the top. He wasn’t facing Muka, but he could feel her behind him. They had been thrown together by the vehicle’s jolts. And she was still alive: he could tell from her warmth.

And then they were climbing a steep slope, the jeep bouncing and sliding, its gears grinding laboriously. The side of Bat’s head hurt so much each time it banged against metal that for a while he tried to stiffen his neck. It only made the pain worse. And then they were back on the flat. Clouds of dust filled the jeep,
puffing up through the floor. Bat struggled to breathe. The heat was now growing. Every fibre in his body felt as if it was on fire. The blood in his veins was starting to simmer. His tongue was parched. The thirst was terrible. It throbbed through his mind, driving all but this one desperate craving from his head.

At one point they crossed a river. The swishing of water was cruel as a torture. Thoughts of its freshness flowed and splashed through his brain. The torment was so terrible he wanted to scream. He tugged at the knots that bound him but he couldn’t loosen them. Only his mind could float free of this trap. It drifted away into the land of his dreams and he imagined for a moment that he was among the elephants, following the slow herd of huge swaying creatures, marching unstoppably across vast open spaces, set free to wander across an entire continent.

There was another halt. A voice called out. Bat strained his ears for the answer but it came in a tongue that he didn’t understand. Voices drew closer. Footsteps scuffed about and he heard the harsh scrape of laughter. Again, he smelled alcohol and cigarette smoke. Another vehicle was approaching. It sounded like a lorry. Perhaps the driver would help. Surely he would do something if he found two children tied up? Drawing in all the breath he could muster, Bat let his lungs swell, and prepared to give a great shout. But the sound broke like a puffball of spores in his cheeks. All that could be heard of the hoped-for explosion was a faint sighing whimper. Soon the big rolling wheels were rumbling slowly off.

And then they were travelling uphill again. It was
cooler now; but Bat’s thirst was so dreadful that he thought it would kill him. Branches slapped the tarpaulin. Thorns squealed as they scraped against metal sides. The vehicle laboured slowly on, sometimes lurching through potholes, occasionally bumping over what felt like a fallen log. Bat’s head smashed onto metal again and again.

When they next came to a stop, the boy had given up hope. He just lay there. At least he wouldn’t be hit against the floor for a while. Maybe he could even sleep for a bit. He was so horribly tired. He longed now for unconsciousness, but the tailgate was opening and the next thing he knew he was being dragged out.

There was a moment of stabbing brightness when he couldn’t see anything. The pain of blood returning bolted through his cramped limbs. The soaring trunks of forest trees were reeling all about him, and then he was looking into a pair of red eyes. They were set in the middle of a round dark face, with cheeks so full that it looked as if their muscles were clenched. Though the short, thick mouth in the middle wasn’t saying anything, Bat seemed for a moment to hear the words that it spoke in his head. ‘I could kill you if I liked,’ it was saying, ‘and nothing would come of it. I will kill you whenever I like, and nothing will happen at all.’ Bat had never seen an expression like that before. He tried to confront it, fear giving him courage, but though his eyes didn’t move, his body was swaying. He couldn’t find his balance on his tightly bound feet.

A gun was slung over the man’s shoulder.
Yes, he is going to kill me
, Bat thought. He felt suddenly calm. He
thought of his father. It was funny that he was going to die just like him . . . shot by strangers who didn’t know him but would end his life anyway. He tried to clench his fists behind his back, but his fingers were too swollen. He would be brave for the moment. He felt the back of his head growing hot. That was where the bullet was going to go in.

‘Don’t worry . . . he isn’t going to kill you. We don’t want you to die . . . not yet. You’ll be no use to us dead.’ The voice that spoke sounded horribly familiar. Bat was sure that he recognized the jeer of the man who was now standing behind him, unknotting his gag, dragging it from his mouth. Bat’s numbed face slewed round at the wrench. He inhaled through a throat that was so clogged with dust that even the thin stream of air made him choke. He longed to swallow but no moisture came. His lips hung in a gape.

‘Lobo?’ he mouthed, but it was no more than a whisper. His tongue was too dry to twist itself round the letters.

‘Sergeant Lobo to you,’ the voice said, and suddenly, there was the boy, standing right in front of him, a wide grin on his face. His deep-set eyes narrowed to slits as he drew on the stub of a cigarette. ‘Quite a haul,’ he announced. ‘Like a caracal: two plovers with one pounce!’

He glanced over to the jeep from which a man was now hauling Muka. The look in her eyes was half fear, half fury as she fought to stay upright. Lobo stepped closer to her and ran a hand down her cheek. He would never have dared touch her like that back in the village;
but she didn’t flinch. Her face was bruised, Bat noticed, and dried blood clotted her temples. One of her eyes was half closing. Her braids were tangled and dusty and her crumpled blue wrap was stained a dark rusty purple. Bat hoped it was blood from the butchered cow.

‘Leave her!’ barked the man with red eyes. ‘Get on with your work!’

The boy shrugged and, walking off, began hacking at trees with his panga, dragging back branches to throw over the jeep. They were trying to hide it. Bat wondered why. Might people be looking for him and Muka? Might help have already been sent?

The man with the bloodshot eyes drew a knife from a sheath and sliced carelessly through the ropes that bound Bat’s legs. The blade drew blood. Bat gasped. But he couldn’t have cried out for help even if he had tried to; even if there had been anyone about to hear. His mouth was too dry.