Three Weeks in December (9781609459024) (21 page)

R
afiki continued to leave little piles of food for Max, the food prepped for eating, stripped of twigs or rolled into balls. Max accepted the gifts, putting them away in sample bags, while she continued to search for the vine. Every once in a while she would grunt lightly to reassure the family with noise. A few of the others would grunt back absentmindedly.

She'd always been conscious of how much space there was around her, worried other people might bump into her, that jittery electric shock skating up her nerves. So her mind habitually mapped out the locations of herself and others, a bird's-eye view, calculating distances. Being with the gorillas, that worry gradually went away. They stayed a few feet back, circling politely around her and each other in a wandering waltz. She found this distance deeply relaxing. That part of her mind, so used to monitoring proximity, loosened bit by bit like a muscle that had been tight way too long.

Occasionally, when out of sheer habit her mind considered the space around her, she noticed the distance between herself and the gorillas was the same as the distance between each of the gorillas. One morning Rafiki stood up next to Max, to lever a
Vernonia
branch down to pluck bunches of its buds. After she'd picked several bunches, she continued to stand there, holding the branch down with her stump, looking away, waiting. Max watched her, uncertain of what she was waiting for. Yoko had said that standing upright was uncomfortable for the gorillas, the same as knucklewalking was uncomfortable for humans. Also, the branch was a good size. It must be hard to hold down like that.

Max wondered if this might be a different type of food offering.

She cautiously raised herself up, moving slowly, watching for a single flash-glance reprimand from Rafiki or the others. No one looked over except Yoko and Mutara, but up here on this mountain, the censure of humans did not count.

So she got to her feet beside Rafiki. Being so used to crouching down, in the shadow of Rafiki's large body, it seemed strange to discover that when they were both standing upright, she was the taller one. For a moment the two of them paused there—one slender and hairless, the other muscular and short. The feeling was not like being next to a dog or horse. It was more like standing beside a weighty and hunched aunt. Max plucked a few clumps of buds, while Rafiki waited, face averted, her own harvest held to her chest.

As Max sank slowly back into her normal crouched position, she looked down. Their feet were side by side. The length of Rafiki's feet was close to that of her own. The width, however, was utterly different, because—while Rafiki's heel and instep were like a human's—the front of her feet spread out into four short fingers and an opposable thumb. A child's hand sewn onto the front of a foot.

In high school, she'd had a biology teacher, Mr. Denni, who'd emphasized the importance of thumbs. He tended to speak in a booming voice suited for a much bigger audience than a few bored eleventh-graders, as though he'd never gotten used to the idea he wasn't lecturing in a large college auditorium. At least once a semester he let drop the fact that he was a member of MENSA and that his wife's uncle had invented the flame-thrower. Discussing evolution, he called out his belief that opposable thumbs equaled manipulation of the environment and, thus, must be followed by brain development. Thumbs—he said—were the reason humans were the dominant species on Earth. He held up his own thumbs and wiggled them around.

Gorillas had four of them.

Rafiki released the branch and sank back down to eat her buds, chomping through them as methodically as a person eating popcorn.

A few months ago, Max had read a study that disproved the idea that Neanderthals died out because they were dumb. Instead, the study demonstrated they had a significantly bigger braincase than even modern humans. It was possible that, half a million years ago, the Neanderthals had been capable of higher order thoughts than anyone living today.

Still the archeological record showed that soon after
Homo sapiens
arrived in any area where Neanderthals lived—even large groups of them—all traces of the Neanderthals disappeared.

She wondered if, like the gorillas, they'd been a gentle people.

Someone touched her on the shoulder and she swiveled fast.

“Lunchtime,” whispered Yoko. “Let's go.”

After a morning with the gorillas, her hairless skin and confrontational stare seemed shocking, such a foreign species.

 

Late that afternoon, the temperature began to drop suddenly, wind moving through the jungle, the branches creaking and groaning. Titus rose majestically on his hind legs, peering at the sky, sniffing. With an authoritative grunt, he led his family up the mountain.

Mutara led the humans in the opposite direction. They'd barely descended a hundred yards before the rain started. Within a minute it was lashing down so hard the spray rebounded several feet into the air, the lightning almost continuous. Waterfalls of red earth gushed down the slope, the trail turning into a rushing river. For the first time Max began to glimpse the scope of the word, “monsoon.”

They half-walked, half-slid down the mountain, over the plants and mud. All of them so fighting for their balance, they didn't say a word until they came in sight of the dark research cabins. The rain beginning to slow, night was falling. By this point, the generator had gotten so low on fuel that they didn't turn it on any more, saving its power in case they needed to phone out for an emergency. They now lived and cooked and worked with candles and fires, as though they'd gone back in time.

They headed straight to Pip's cabin for dinner. After eating, they would return to their cabins to do what work was possible without computers or other electrical equipment.

Just before they got to the cabin, a scream rang off the roof above them. Max took a fast step forward, running straight into Mutara's back.

“What?” He turned around. “Ahh, the sound. It is a hyrax. Little animal.” He cupped his hands to show how big it was. “Makes much noise, yes?”

In Pip's cabin, the only illumination was a single candle in the center of the table. In the light from it, Pip and Dubois were sitting by the radio, not saying a word. They made no move at the entrance of the others.

“The radio . . . the radio just now.” Pip's voice wavered. “They announced . . . ”

Dubois continued, “This morning a UN plane is flying near Rutshuru, forty-two soldiers on board.” She wrapped her arms tightly round her ribs. “Nigerians and Belgians. Soldiers to keep the peace in the Congo. The people on the ground, they say they are seeing the plane in the air, then something flies up to hit it. Then it catches fire. And falls into the jungle.”

In the meadow outside, a forest buff moaned, hoarse and surprisingly cow-like.

“A missile?” Max said. “What a minute. The Kutu have missiles?”

“Hey, we don't know the Kutu did this,” said Yoko.

All of them, even Max, turned to stare at her. After a day in the jungle, Yoko's hair was standing straight up, a little like a cockatiel's feathers.

“What?” Yoko said, “It
could
be someone else.”

There was a pause, then Dubois continued. “They do not know yet if the soldiers live. If any are captured.”

“Rutshuru, how far away is it?” Max asked.

“Thirty miles,” said Yoko. “Two days of travel on the jungle paths they call roads around here.”

Max could imagine the UN soldiers who survived the crash limping out of the plane, dragging those who were wounded to safety. Crouched over the bodies, trying to stem the flow of blood, these men would look up when the children stepped out of the jungle, what appeared to be toy rifles looped over their shoulders.

“Little wankers.” Pip's voice was almost without emotion. “Are the planes going to be flying on Tuesday? I want to go home.”

Yoko stepped forward to get them soup. They sat down, listening to the clacking of the ladle. On the table, she placed the bowls and, since they'd run out of sweets, a small bag of Doritos for dessert. The four of them took slow bites of the soup. Max ate her tofu, no one saying anything while they listened to the rest of the BBC news hour. She was getting much better at eating with just her right hand, her other hand in the sling. She'd learned to wedge the box of tofu between several bowls so it didn't fall over when her spoon scraped at the corners.

Whenever the radio's volume got too low, one of the others would pick the radio up to crank it back to full power. There was a story about the brokering of a cease-fire in the Chechen Republic and another about five fans trampled at an Italian soccer match. Nothing more about the UN soldiers.

After the end of the show Dubois leaned forward and clicked the radio off.

In the silence, with just one lit candle, with no phone or light bulb working in camp and the Kutu getting closer, the precariousness of their situation seemed clear.

Yoko was the one to break the silence. Her voice was quiet. “Maybe it's time we abandoned the station.”

There was a rustle of surprise at her words. In the light from the candle, the parts of her most visible were her hands lying pale and thin on the table. Having stared at chapped gorilla hands all day, Max noted the smoothness of these narrow fingers. This was not someone who'd lived outside, struggling with the elements. These were the hands of a researcher, a bookish academic. Examining the hands of the others, she understood none of them had much practice in recognizing physical danger, in delineating the exact point when their previous methods of coping should be abandoned and new rules adopted. For each of them (except Pip), one of their biggest fears seemed to be overreacting and looking like a fool.

Yoko addressed Dubois. “Without electricity, we can't get much work done.”

“We go to town soon and get fuel,” answered Dubois. She picked her hands up, seemed to be rubbing her temples. Her voice was tense. Possibly another migraine was starting. She'd been getting more of them recently.

“We won't be able to afford that for long. The black market's too expensive.”

“We can pay for a while.”

“Soon we'll run out of paper and even potato soup. Soon we'll have to leave.”

“If we go,” said Dubois, “our stipends stop, no? Then no more patrols. Without us and the patrols, the hunters come.”

Into the pause afterward—that pause while they all considered what their response might be—Pip spoke. “Please, you have to leave. I don't want you to die. You've no guns. You can't stop anyone, Kutu or poachers.” Her voice was loud and pleading.

Yoko grimaced in irritation and the moment was lost.

Max noticed Mutara. He'd finished his soup, wiped his mouth, and pushed back from the table. He did not add anything to either side of the debate. He kept his head down. His hands, she saw now, were much rougher than the researchers'. She remembered the way he'd grunted with pain each time he'd tried to jam her shoulder back into the socket, a private sound. That final time, he'd jammed it in hard, filled with sudden fury.

Sitting here, he didn't offer his opinion on what they should do.

B
ack from the night in the hunting perch, Jeremy napped in his tent before commencing the day's work on the railroad. He slept now whenever he had a moment, fast as a rock falling, instantly unconscious.

He dreamed he had somehow become Taylor, the railroad survey coordinator. He lay on Taylor's bed in his tent near Voi. The unlikely perfection of the moment overwhelmed him: to be here if only for a little while, listening to the breathing of sleeping children, feeling the warm weight of a wife beside him. His gratitude was intense. He relaxed enough to feel the extent of his exhaustion, all those years of pretending. He had hopes if he made no noise, drew no attention to himself, he could sleep here a little while, just until he was less tired.

Then the lion cupped his mouth over Jeremy's face.

Warm darkness, saliva dripped onto his cheeks, the rough tongue rested on his nose, the jowls forming a tight seal. There was the stench of decomposing meat bits wedged between the animal's teeth. Jeremy gasped at the lack of air, suffocating.

Even in this moment he did not thrash or kick once. He would endure so much in order to lie beside someone for a while.

It was only as the lion began to tug him from the bed that he woke.

Opening his eyes, he stared at the woman's face above him. It took him a moment to recognize his WaKikiyu cook pulling on his shoulder, sent to rouse him for work.

 

He and Otombe walked three miles to a Masai village. The village had been attacked twice in the last few weeks, and Otombe wished to learn what the Masai knew.

Jeremy was limping from three insect bites on the soles of his feet. The circumference of each bite was swollen red. In the center was a visible puncture with flesh missing. Palpating each, he could feel something hard and lumpy beneath. The infection, he wondered, or some type of burrowing beetle? Each time he took a step, pain shot upward. He marveled that he had not noticed the bites when they occurred.

Hoping to distract himself, he asked, “Last night, how did you know the lions were nearby?” At least without his spine protector, these long walks were easier. His back perspired less, his movements were less restricted. He could only hope his spinal column was protected enough from the sun's radiation by his hat and shirt alone.

Otombe said, “Lions roar in the beginning of a hunt while they are figuring out their plan. Come this way, one says. No, this way, the other answers. Once they go silent, they have agreed on a target. Last night, they went silent around the time they could hear and smell the goats.”

Outside the boma of the Masai village, twelve men waited in a line for them. They stood almost at attention, their robes, hair and skin smeared with red dye.

“Feel honored,” said Otombe. “They have put on their finery for you.”

No, Jeremy thought, they did so for my rifle.

As he got closer to the men, he was taken aback to see they wore necklaces, headbands and, even many earrings—tawdry and layered as a little girl's attempt at dress up. Still they were clearly men. Their height rivaled his own, a few were distinctly taller. None suffered from his poor posture. Instead, they stood with their heads high, backs straight, male hips squared inside their skirts.

“Are these hunters?” Jeremy tried to concentrate on the way each held his spear as confidently as though it were another limb.

“No,” said Otombe, smiling. “These are shepherds. They don't even kill their cows, just bleed them a little, drink that and the milk.”

Otombe and the men greeted each other in Swahili. An old Masai began to talk, his chest sunken and voice quavering. Jeremy surveyed the men for signs of the famine. They wore robes that looped across their chests, covering their torsos and upper thighs. Their limbs were bony but he had gotten so accustomed to slender Africans that he could no longer tell what was normal.

The older Masai led them around the village's boma, stopping after a time to point at the thorn wall. Jeremy assumed the man was explaining the details of the fortifications, the width of the wall or the technique with which the branches had been woven.

“Last time the lions killed one of their people was a week ago,” Otombe told him in English. “They do not know how the lion got into the boma. No lion had ever tried before. It was night. The animal just appeared, grabbed a woman from her hut and dragged her away. She was screaming. Her husband chased after her with his spear, but was not fast enough. He watched the lion tug her right through the wall here.”

“What?” asked Jeremy. “Where?” He squatted down and tried to peer through the thorn wall. Angling his head from side to side, he could see only the smallest pinpricks of light.

“Here,” Otombe said.

Looking closer, still unable to find any sign of a tunnel or even a thinning in the woven wall, Jeremy noticed on some thorns a few tatters of hair and a wrinkled flap of what might be skin. “But that is impossible. The wall must be two feet thick.”

“Three feet,” Otombe nodded. “The husband says he has never seen another animal do such a thing. It was as though the lion was not made of flesh. The animal tucked his head down and just backed through. The wife, as she was pulled through, tried to grab hold of even the thorns.”

Otombe added, “Some of the people believe these lions are not physical beings. They think if we do shoot them, the bullets will pass right through, in the same way the lion passed through this wall.”

 

On the walk back through the savannah, Otombe said, “You are limping, you have been all morning.”

Jeremy admitted, “A few insects appear to have bitten the soles of my feet.”

Otombe asked, “Is there a lump left within each bite?”

“Yes,” said Jeremy.

“They are worms who lay eggs. You must get the eggs out before they hatch. Take off your shoes and socks. I will cut them out.”

“Cut?”

“Shallow cuts. Just enough to scoop out the eggs.”

Jeremy looked down at his feet. They were the least favorite part of his anatomy, pale and spindly as the appendages of some cave creature. He explained with embarrassment, “In the heat my feet are rather fragrant.”

“Because you make them swelter in tight leather. Take off your shoes.” He waited for Jeremy to respond. “The worms, when they hatch, they burrow through the body, eating. Their favorite organ is the brain.”

Jeremy sat right down in the dirt to tug off his shoes and socks.

Squatting down and cupping Jeremy's ankle in his hand, Otombe made no face at the smell. His fingers were hard with calluses. He pulled his knife from his leg sheath; the blade was beaten steel, three inches long and glittering. Jeremy did not wish to appear a coward in front of this man. He closed his eyes, forced his attention on the sounds around him, breathed deeply. A bird's trill, the wind rustling through the grass. From somewhere behind him he heard the lightest
tap-tap
, like salt being shaken over a leaf. Glancing that way, he saw an eight-foot-tall termite mound. Inside, the tiny insects drummed busily.

The knife cut so fast he felt the pain only afterward. He jerked back to face Otombe. He was alone in the forest with a near-naked savage, his knife scooping a parasite's eggs from his flesh, the man's fingers wrapped tenderly round his heel. This was not, he thought, the life his mother had imagined for him. He stared hard at Otombe's face, those cheekbones outlined by famine, the man's concentration.

The knife sliced a second time. Its searing pain almost a relief.

He wished so much he were fashioned in some other way.

“Tonight,” Jeremy said, “I have to sleep in my own bed. This is all too much for me.”

Head down, Otombe nodded.

 

During tea, in front of his tent, Jeremy found Alan unusually reticent. After a minute or two of silence punctuated only by the clink of spoons on teacups, Jeremy said, “It is strange, is it not, that everyone assumes an engineer like me should be the one to hunt the lions. You know, crawl into the bushes after the creatures and all.” Alan nodded, but seemed uninterested in responding further. Jeremy added, “It was not exactly the subject of my schooling.”

The WaKikiyu cook brought sandwiches over and placed them on the table. Aside from the scent of the fresh bread, there came with her the smell of the cooking fire and the goat grease she used on her hands. She headed back toward her fire without once having glanced at the men. Jeremy did not know her name and had yet to hear her voice.

Alan grunted and announced, “I know I'll have been here too long when she begins to appear attractive to me.”

Jeremy glanced after her, not knowing how much English she might comprehend. Her pace did not falter. Personally, he did not understand why Alan would say this. Yes, her head was shaved and her race Nilotic, but her body was young and strong and she carried herself with some grace. From what he had observed of the tendencies of other men, this seemed to be all that was required to regard a woman with interest.

“About the lions,” Alan said, “Shooting a few pesky predators is an integral component of the colonization process. I have seen it work time and again. The tribes immediately become more pacified, convinced we whites offer certain benefits.” He bit into a watercress sandwich. “Since these lions have plagued so many tribes in such a large area, if you successfully shoot them, it will do more to tame this colony than years of our railroad running through its heart.”

Jeremy heard a loud crack from somewhere in the forest outside the boma, like the smack of a hammer on rock.

A new silence fell between the men. Normally Alan chatted about all the hunting he had done. Today, however, he seemed to have little to say and his eyes kept returning to Jeremy, something in his expression puzzled.

He heard the sharp crack again. It came from the direction of the bonfire, its dark smoke rising in the air.

“What was that sound?” Jeremy asked. He stirred his tea, conscious of Alan's eyes following his hands, watching the way he handled the spoon, the way he picked up his cup. Jeremy began to feel a distinct unease.

“That sound like snooker balls hitting?”

“Yes.” In Jeremy's late teens and early twenties, one by one his family had begun to study him, appearing a trifle confused as Alan did now. Each person would stare, examining the way he walked, as well as his expression when he looked at the farm hands, observing him whenever they thought he might not notice.

“Three patients died last night. I had the remains tossed on the fire. During the cremation process, there's a point when the skull cracks open, from the heat.” Alan took another bite of the sandwich, his teeth white against the blistered red of his face. “The coolies believe it a good sound, the soul released to heaven.”

Trying to move his mind away from that information, Jeremy said, “I visited a Masai village today.“

“Really?” Already Alan sat with his chair pushed farther back from Jeremy, his legs angled away. “I've just been reading an article about that tribe. A missionary who has lived among them for two decades has data to suggest the rate of births is decreasing, as well as the number of marriages and their overall health. It started years before this recent famine. The man suggests this decline might be endemic to many of the less-civilized tribes.”

Jeremy remembered Otombe saying half of his tribe had died. “Why would that happen?”

Alan served himself another sandwich. “Well, first off, let us be objective about this. You have to question if it's true. The man is no scientist. The data is far from ironclad. It covers such a short period, just a few villages, primarily one tribe. Still, it piques the interest. Before now, no one has bothered to survey these people.”

Jeremy nodded, not trying to make his gesture overly firm or masculine. He knew acting would never work in the long run, not with someone who was around him extensively and who already had suspicions. Instead, he kept his eyes on the smoke of the bonfire, endured Alan's gaze, waited for the man to be sure.

Alan continued, “If it is true, you must wonder at the timing of the Masai. We are here bringing technology, religion, and modern comforts. Things are finally looking up for this bloody continent. Why would they decide to exit now?”

Jeremy knew he and Alan would not be having tea together for much longer.

 

For the first time in four nights, he lay down to spend the night in his tent. Rolling the mosquito netting down around his bed, he was surprised at how uneasy he felt to be here. Laying down on a cot, even in the center of a boma, now seemed like an unnatural act, attempting to sleep at the level of the lions, thin canvas walls between him and the night. He placed his rifle across his chest and felt utterly defenseless. The Masai's boma had stood at least fourteen feet high, its walls three feet thick. At each sound, he startled slightly. He craved the safety of a bench high in a tree and the solid darkness of Otombe by his side.

In spite of his misgivings, he must have fallen asleep because he was jarred awake by the first of the lions' roars. He blinked around confused, not sure how much time had passed. Five minutes? Five hours?

The answering roar came from a mile to the south, somewhere around the nearly completed canal. The lions seemed to regard all the torn-up earth as their playground. He looked at the bright flame of the kerosene lamp by his side. With it lit, the lions would be able to see shadows through the tent walls, have a better idea of what lay inside, where to attack. He blew it out, then—shocked at the absolute darkness—hurriedly lit it again.

The lions roared intermittently, gradually getting closer. Around the time they reached the railroad tracks, their roaring stopped. He waited, counting, forcing himself not to hurry. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. A fox yipped by the far end of camp. Three Mississippi, four. Not a sound from the lions. He reached twenty Mississippi and blew out the wick again. The darkness around him was complete. He lay on his cot in it, staring up at the ceiling and attempting to control the slight hiss of his breath. The waiting began. For the first time he began to comprehend the depth of the Indians' terror.