The Child's Elephant (28 page)

‘Let’s go!’ Bat shouted. His cry rang around the rocks. He had meant it to. Surely the elephants would hear
it . . . even over the falling water . . . they would hear it and be warned. Even now they would be slipping quickly away, vanishing like shadows into the underbrush. They would be safe for the time being. Despite bruises that were swelling into throbbing contusions, despite a sliced open kneecap around which the flies buzzed, Bat set off at a brisk trot. All that mattered now, he thought as he drove his battered body onwards, was that he should keep moving. All that mattered was that he should keep leading them away from the elephants.

He didn’t look back. He feared meeting the eyes of the Leopard; he feared that his face might betray his lie. He could hear his fierce hard breath behind him. The chainsaw was heavy and it was starting to slow him up. He wouldn’t take kindly to any so-called mistake. And then, all at once, Bat found himself once more on an elephant path. It was more than he could have hoped for. Now they would think that they were back on the elephants’ tracks. He closed his eyes for a moment and thanked the gods for this gift.

The trail had not been used for some time. Bat could tell: the marks of smaller creatures blurred the elephants’ old prints. But here and there he could still pick them out. Only a practised tracker could follow spoor this old, and even then it would be hard to know the right direction. Bat searched for the distinctive scuff marks that the hoofed toe made at the front, then began, deliberately as a village woman re-ravelling an unspooling cotton thread, to follow the trail backwards to the place from which it had begun. Now, every step they travelled was taking them further
from the animals. Every step they were taking gave the elephants a better chance to escape.

The sun was lowering through the sky. Hanging vines clogged the path. Dry leaves masked any footprints. The leaves also hid deep holes. Lobo stumbled and fell. He let go a deep grunt. The Goat, half asleep on his feet, jerked his head up in fright. The ranger looked anxious. The Leopard gave a black scowl. ‘How far, boy?’ he breathed. He was thinking that at any moment they would come across the great animals, surprise them as they settled in some glade for the night.

Suddenly, the Leopard sprang forward. He held up a clenched fist. The squad froze. Silently, he pointed. A tatter of cloth had been left on a thorn. It was a sandy brown colour. And it came from the uniform of a government soldier. Each of them recognized it only too well. They glanced nervously about them. This was the sort of territory that their rebel army most favoured. It was the right sort of ground in which an ambush could be set. But now they knew that the government forces had been here too.

The Leopard shifted his grip on his rifle. Bat noticed the sweat-prints that his fingers left on the stock. His eyes raked the shadows. But there was nothing to be seen.

Step by stealthy step, the Leopard began to retreat. The squad which had set out that morning as predators had now, as the dusk gathered, become the prey instead. They were stealing back into the safety of the highest forests from where, looping about, Bat supposed they would creep back to the camp. But he was
too exhausted even to feel relief. He just had to keep putting one foot down in the front of the other. He just had to keep struggling on. His knee was so swollen that every upward step pained him, his ribcage so bruised that every panting breath throbbed. And when finally the Leopard indicated that they would stop for the night, he fell instantly into a fitful sleep.

He dreamed of an elephant herd drifting through the forest. He dreamed that Meya was among them, that she was shambling towards him, reaching out with her trunk. He thought he could feel her touch, soft as a caress, upon his bruised cheek, but when he opened his eyes, it was only an insect crawling over him. He was shivering with cold and every bone in his body ached. The scream of the crickets was like a knife in his brain. And from the cover of the thicket under which he was hidden he could see a single red eye, like the eye of a crocodile, burning. It was the cigarette of the Leopard as he crouched amid the darkness and smoked.

By noon the next day, they were almost back at the camp. The Leopard didn’t return with them. When they reached the Land Rover, he left with the ranger. ‘I’ll be back,’ was all he said.

It was Lobo who was in charge of the exhausted little band that, a short while later, straggled into the forest clearing. They began to feel better once their bellies were full.

‘Next time, Bat, eh?’ said the Thief as he scraped up the last of the cassava porridge. ‘We’ll get them next time! Now we know where they are.’

Kwet laughed. He slapped Bat on the back. ‘That jump! You’re a madman. You deserve to be dead!’ He pulled out a wad of dagga and started to smoke. ‘You should have seen it!’ he cried out. ‘He was like a flying fox . . . like a bat. You are like a bat.’ And he held his sides with laughter at his own joke.

Lobo sidled up. ‘You’re one of us now, boy,’ he said, hunkering down beside him.

Bat nodded. But when he saw Muka passing, his eyes met hers clear and straight.

And yet all was not right in the camp. The commander was tense. He gritted his teeth when he learned that the Leopard had left. From then on he was restless and alert. He was waiting for something to happen. All night, the sentinels paced back and forth, back and forth.

But nothing: night passed into morning, morning into afternoon, afternoon into evening and then night again. There was no sign of anyone. The mood of strained waiting stretched out longer and longer. It started to feel like it would go on for ever, until suddenly, on the evening of the fourth day, it snapped.

The sky started to throb. What was happening? Bat’s eyes scurried about. He leaped to his feet. Where was Muka? It was his only thought. A growing roar filled his ears. It was like the sound of a river as it rushes towards the rapids. The blood pounded his temples. All about him he could see children running, scattering like chickens when the shadow of a hawk sweeps the yard. They vanished into the trees. Where was she? The compound was all but deserted. And then, suddenly, he spotted her, darting bewildered across the open spaces, pausing befuddled in the middle of the clearing. He dashed towards her.

A strange creature was bearing down upon them from the skies. Its wings flashed in the sunlight like fast whirling knives. The tree-tops were surging and heaving, rolling and lashing. It was coming towards him.
The noise was deafening. Bat clutched Muka to him and stared, completely spellbound. It was as if a stone had been flung up and just stayed there, he thought. It couldn’t be real. The tattered roofs of the palm huts started to flap and lift. Everything was vibrating. Muka could feel him shaking as she clung to his chest and then, suddenly, with a crash, they were flung down on earth. For a few moments they just sprawled there, too stupefied to move. ‘Lie flat!’ Gulu was screaming. He had flung his body across them. His grip burned Muka’s wrist. The whirling dust was filling their mouth, throat and ears. ‘It’s a helicopter,’ he was yelling. ‘It’s a helicopter. Keep down!’

And then it was over. The flying thing passed on. As its roar slowly faded, the other soldiers began to emerge. ‘You’re so lucky, so lucky,’ Gulu was panting. ‘You’re so lucky,’ he was repeating again and again. ‘That was a helicopter. It could so easily have killed you. A helicopter sends bullets like clouds send down rain to the earth.’

Shakily they clambered back to their feet.

‘We are leaving!’ At an order from the commander, the whole camp sprang to life. Nobody spoke. The child leaders were efficient. They had done this before. They had lived so long in the army they had learned to fly without perching. Stuffing whatever food they could find into knapsacks, they shouldered their guns, strapped on knives and buckled ammunition belts. All prepared to go, they breathed deep and level, their hands clutching at stocks as they began to marshal the less practised soldiers. Everywhere, children were scurrying hither and thither in confusion.

‘Carry as much ammunition as you can . . .’ ordered the commander.

‘But not too much,’ barked Kwet, half emptying the pack of a frail young boy who was so heavily laden that he started to topple when he tried to stand up.

The Thief handed round strips of green cloth to be tied round their heads. ‘If you see anyone without a band like this, then shoot,’ he commanded. ‘Shoot without even so much as a second thought.’

Like a machine that has been kicked into action, the children fell into files, as they had been taught.

‘You are trained soldiers now!’ The commander paced the lines, his slow bloodshot gaze searching each face in turn. ‘You are ready to fight.’ His heavy-booted tread passed between them. Bat’s eyes met that dark bulging face without flinching. Gulu, tucked in behind him, stood tense. Muka was in the line next to theirs, in the squad of the child leader Kamlara. Last in her file was La, the little boy who would not speak. He had dashed back at the last minute to collect his bushbaby and now it was clinging to the edges of his pocket, uttering tiny high-pitched ‘wheets’ of confusion.

Lobo strode over and grabbed it. ‘Do you want to get us all killed?’ He flung the little creature down at his feet. It struggled up, hands spread imploringly. Lobo kicked it away. Even then La did not speak. Only Muka saw the tears that came rolling down his cheeks.

All morning the children were kept marching through the forest, stopping only for water when they came to a stream. They were tired and hungry. When they reached a thicket of wild sugar cane, one of the
girls fell upon it but the Goat, spotting her, smacked her hard in the face. ‘Are you stupid?’ he hissed. ‘Do you think the government soldiers can’t follow that?’ He kicked a spat mouthful of chewed fibres from the path while the girl watched, half stunned. The sugary juices dribbled between her parted lips.

The children pressed on. The helicopter could so easily have spotted their encampment. Even now, the government army was probably entering the clearing. Squads of trained soldiers would soon be following their tracks. The fear made them hurry. Sometimes they broke into a half-run. There was no sound but the swish of their knapsacks jogging against their backs. When the commander at the head of the line raised his clenched fist, they stopped. When he brought it down slowly, they would all squat on one heel, eyes scanning the spaces between shadowy tree-trunks. When he beckoned, they would run forward again.

Time surged and slowed and then picked up speed again. It carried them along on its waves. At one moment the children would feel so tired that they feared they could go on no further; at the next they would jog as if their journey had no end. They slid down steep slopes and scrambled rocky proclivities. At one point they crossed a broken-down bridge. It was made of nothing but a few hastily hacked branches. As he put his weight on them, Bat felt the whole disjoined structure sag. He looked down and felt his head spinning. The river in the gulley below had run completely dry.

By the evening, the child soldiers were so famished that the younger ones were beginning to flounder. They
ate a handful of millet flour each and slept out on the ground. It was cold, so cold. They shivered and turned fretfully in their huddled heap. In the morning their clothes were soaked wet by dew.

The gradients steepened the next day. The children were moving higher and higher up into the mountains. But the pace was relentless. The bedraggled army marched endlessly on, its entire existence reduced to a simple blind obedience. The children’s ragged clothes were stiff with sweat. Flies buzzed round the cuts where the thorns had raked their skin open. Their eyes ached with tiredness. Their heads throbbed in the heat.

On the second evening, just as dusk was falling, the girl they all knew as the Leopard’s favourite collapsed all of a sudden and lay without moving. She had always seemed so strong, Muka thought, never speaking of her life before the army had abducted her, never spilling a tear or grasping at a forlorn hope. She had accepted her fate as impassively as she had accepted the necklace from the Leopard when he had reached out and fastened it round her. But now her solitary spirit had finally broken. She refused to go on.

‘I can’t make it,’ she gasped. ‘Just let me lie here.’

The commander nodded to Lobo, who fell back and jerked her roughly to her feet. He began to push her forward, a knife blade at her shoulders.

She blundered on for a while before stumbling to her knees and collapsing again. ‘Leave me, leave me,’ she murmured. Her plea was no more than a parched whisper. She crumpled down among the leaves and the darkness enclosed her.

Hauling her upright, the commander propped her against a tree. She stood there staring outwards with eyes too big for her skull. He stroked her face gently. For a moment it was almost as if he was soothing some poor trembling creature. For a moment Muka thought that he looked almost kind. Then a flood of dark blood spilled over his hand. The girl’s head dropped and she slumped. The commander turned, wiped a blade and re-sheathed it in his belt. He spat on the ground. ‘She was weak,’ was all he said. ‘She would have shown our enemies the way.’