The White Giraffe

by Lauren St. John

  Afterward, Martine was glad that she had. The porridge was fantastic. It poured into her veins like molten lava, warming her bones and clearing her head. When she was finished, Martine told Grace what had happened to Jemmy, giving her as much detail as she could about the poachers’ chase.

  “One question, chile,” Grace said when she had finished. “Did you ever see the face of any of them hunters?”

  Martine glanced uneasily at her grandmother.

  “Go on,” urged Gwyn Thomas.

  “Well, I didn’t see either of their faces, but I think that somebody at Sawubona might be involved. I think it could be . . .” Martine faltered. She didn’t want to make her grandmother angry again.

  “It could be Alex,” she said at last.

  “No!” cried her grandmother. “Your grandfather trusted Alex with his life. I won’t have you saying—”

  “ENOUGH!” commanded Grace. “The chile has spoken. Now we must listen for the answers.”

  She heaved herself off the chair and drew the curtains. The room was plunged into blackness. A match flared and Grace placed a candle on the table. She sat down on the grass mat with a grunt, her broad face and deep-set eyes glittering eerily. Out of her blouse she produced a small leather pouch, which she proceeded to empty on the ground in front of her. As far as Martine could tell, it contained a collection of small bones, a portion of porcupine quill, a guinea fowl feather, and a couple of elephant hairs. Grace closed her eyes and began to chant.

  Nothing happened for several minutes and then a low, rhythmic pounding began to emanate from Grace’s chest, like the sound of a distant drum. Before Martine’s startled eyes, a thin spiral of blue smoke rose from the objects on the floor. It flattened out and blurred images began to flash across it, too fast for her to take in. There were mountains and men in loincloths and headdresses, great herds of animals and bloody battles, and once she thought she saw a giraffe, but it was gone before she could be sure.

  Grace’s eyes rolled back in her head. “Water,” she moaned. “I see blue, blue water and boats that go up to the sky. The men are going far. They be hungry for the power. The white giraffe is there, but not for much longer. I see much pain, much pain, much pain . . .”

  “Stop!” shouted Gwyn Thomas.

  The smoke disappeared. Grace’s eyes swam back into her head. She was shaking. She looked up at Martine.

  “Go now, chile. Soon it will be too late.”

  “But where?” cried Martine. “Where have they taken him?”

  "’Boats that go up to the sky’ can only mean one thing—the dockyards in Cape Town,” interrupted her grandmother. “Hurry, Martine. I think they’re taking him abroad.”

  22

  Maybe Gwyn Thomas had driven as fast as she did on the way into Cape Town before that day, but Martine seriously doubted it. As it was, the needle on the ancient red Datsun quivered as if it were about to burst through the glass. Martine could tell that her grandmother was very anxious. But she was also very determined. She had agreed to drive Martine to the docks but no farther. “If Jeremiah isn’t there, we’ll have to call the police,” she’d said firmly. All Martine’s protests had been in vain.

  The two hours that it took to reach the ocean seemed the longest of Martine’s life. Every possible obstacle conspired to delay them. A police roadblock. A traffic jam. A busload of disembarking senior citizens. Three loose cows ambling across the road.

  And all the while Grace’s prophecy kept running through Martine’s head. The white giraffe is there, but not for much longer. I see much pain, much pain, much pain . . .

  They were on an inland road and soon the wine estates, with their pristine white Cape Dutch buildings and lavender-lined drives, were followed by shantytowns reminiscent of the Soweto Tendai had described to Martine. Mile upon mile of rusting iron and water-stained plywood shacks, worm-ridden dogs, and shifty, hungry-eyed youths. Children played in the dirt with wire toys. The thought of Tendai brought back the memory of the day they’d spent together at Sawubona.

  Gwyn Thomas pulled off the highway and took the coastal road down to the waterfront. The forbidding crags of Table Mountain were draped in thick cloud. When tall gray cargo ships and cranes lifting containers came into view, she slowed the car to a crawl. Martine was ready to explode with impatience, but she knew that they had to find a place to hide the car. An overgrown track provided a solution. They bounced over the weeds and stones and parked under a flat-topped pine tree. Gwyn Thomas opened her door and started to get out of the car. Martine put her hand on her grandmother’s sleeve.

  “Grandmother. This is something I have to do on my own.”

  “I don’t think so,” Gwyn Thomas said wryly. “You’re eleven years old and you’re an hour and a half from home.”

  But Martine stood her ground. “It’s my fault that Jemmy’s been captured, and if he’s hurt, that’ll be my fault too. I’ve got to be the one to try to find him.”

  Gwyn Thomas sat back down and closed the car door. A battle was going on behind her eyes. “Where is this all going to end?” she said, and Martine had a feeling that she was talking about much more than the disappearance of the giraffe.

  She put a hand on Martine’s shoulder. “All right, go and look for your precious Jemmy. But if you’re not back in forty-five minutes, I’m calling the police. I’m not taking any chances. The pain of losing one child was terrible. I couldn’t bear it if I lost another.”

  Martine leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and was surprised to see her grandmother’s blue eyes fill with tears.

  “Thanks for everything,” she said.

  She hopped out of the car and ran back along the track to the main road. The ocean wind cut through her thin T-shirt like a knife and the salty air tingled in her nostrils. At the bottom of the hill, behind a high fence fortified with coils of razor wire, lay the shipyard. Beyond it, the sea was a churning, white-capped green. The shipyard was buzzing with activity and she could hear dogs barking— guard dogs, perhaps. Martine waited shivering behind a tree for a couple of cars to pass. She was beginning to regret that she hadn’t brought a jacket. She put a hand on the medicine pouch that Grace had given her at the Secret Valley. In the car, her grandmother had commented on it, but Martine would say nothing about it except that it had been a gift from a friend to bring her luck. Now she drew courage from it. She had also brought along Mr. Morrison’s Swiss Army knife for good measure. If she could get to Jemmy, she was sure that she could help him.

  When the road was clear, she sprinted to the gate and slipped behind the wooden guardhouse. She’d intended to try to talk her way in, but when she peered through the salt-smeared window, there didn’t seem any real need. There were two security men in the hut. One was watching rugby on TV and stirring a cup of tea, his chair balancing precariously on its rear legs. The other was on his radio, his back toward the window. He was having an argument. “Who’re you calling an idiot? Over.”

  Furious crackling followed.

  Martine didn’t wait to hear any more. She ducked under the barrier and ran for the mountainous lines of blue, red, and gray containers. With every stride she expected to hear voices yelling for her to stop, but no one seemed to notice her. Except . . .

  A snarl that almost turned her blood to yogurt brought her to a terrified halt. A rottweiler was blocking her path, his lips pulled back over teeth as savage and numerous as a crocodile’s. In spite of the icy breeze, Martine began to sweat. Instinctively she fixed her green eyes on the rottweiler’s big yellow ones and focused all her energy on dominating him, telling him that if he dared to prevent her from saving Jemmy, she’d personally feed him to the sharks. Then she commanded him to lie down and let her pass.

  To her astonishment, the rottweiler sank to the ground with a piteous whine. He put his paws over his eyes. If Martine hadn’t been so scared, she would have laughed.

  She stepped over him and sneaked forward until she came to a gap between two metal contai
ners. Through it, she could see the docks. There were three gray ships and a blue and white tugboat in the harbor. The shipyard itself was bustling with workers. Martine estimated that there were about twenty-five crates and several expensive cars in the process of being loaded. There was no sign of a giraffe. Time was running out for Jemmy and she didn’t know where to start. How could she even begin to search three ships the size of skyscrapers? What had she been thinking? Why hadn’t she just called the police as her grandmother suggested? Why did she always have to do everything the hard way? Why was she always so stubborn?

  Suddenly she was grabbed from behind. “Let go of me,” she screeched, and began to fight and squeal like a wounded warthog. She and her assailant hit the ground with a thud. Martine lay on her stomach, groaning, too winded to move.

  “I’m arresting you for trespassing on private property,” said a clear young voice. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  Martine rolled over, still breathing heavily.

  “You!” she cried.

  A pair of lion’s eyes gazed calmly back at her. “Hello, Martine,” Ben said, grinning.

  23

  Martine scrambled to her feet, ignoring the hand Ben held out to her.

  "You could have been a bit more gentle with me,” she said crossly.

  “I apologize,” said Ben, who seemed to be struggling not to laugh. “I didn’t recognize you until we were in midair. But you are trespassing, you know.”

  “What about you?” Martine accused. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

  “My father is a sailor.” Ben pointed to one of the tall gray ships. “That’s his boat over there—the Aurora. I have permission to be here. You don’t.”

  Martine sighed. She could see that she had no choice but to tell Ben about Jemmy and just pray that he didn’t try to stop her. As briefly and quickly as she could, she explained about her betrayal of the white giraffe, about the hunters, and about Grace’s prediction. She also told him about her grandmother, parked behind the pines, waiting. Lastly, she told him how much Jemmy meant to her and how desperate she was to save him.

  “Please, Ben,” she said, “please say you won’t stand in my way.”

  Ben’s face was serious. “For ages now my father has worried that his ship is being used to smuggle rare animals out of the country, but he didn’t want to notify the authorities until he was sure. If the giraffe is on board, I think we can get to him, but we must go at once. The Aurora sets sail in thirty minutes.”

  Before Martine could get used to this new Ben—a Ben who spoke and smiled and was a million miles away from the shy, studious boy he appeared to be at school—he was striding confidently across the shipyard, beckoning for her to follow. He wore ragged jeans, heavy boots, and a sleeveless black T-shirt, and his arms, though thin, were sinewy and strong. Martine ran to catch up with him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she inquired breathlessly. “Do you really imagine that we are just going to walk onto the ship and walk off with a giraffe?”

  “We aren’t,” said Ben. “You are.” He smiled. “Trust me. Sometimes the most obvious way is the best way.”

  As if to prove him right, a commotion erupted on the jetty. A crate had broken while it was being hoisted onto the deck, and what looked like an antique table and several highly polished chairs were bobbing around in the greasy green harbor. Men were cursing and shaking their fists and two guard dogs were going berserk at the end of their chains. Ben took no notice of them. He strode coolly across the gangplank of the ship, onto the deck, and through a low doorway. Martine scuttled in after him.

  Below deck, the ship was a warren of corridors, galleys, and anonymous cabins. They walked as quickly as they could along miles of battleship-gray passages and down two spiral staircases, their footsteps ringing like church bells on the steel. Finally they came to a storage room. A swarthy man was hunched over a computer. He jumped up when Ben tapped at the door and shouted something in a foreign language.

  Ben gave him a radiant smile. “Captain Holloway is asking for you up on deck,” he said politely. “I’m not sure what it’s about, but it seems to be urgent.”

  The man glared at him suspiciously. He reached for his radio.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s an emergency,” Ben said again.

  Muttering, the man snatched up some papers and scurried away along the corridor. Ben waited until he was out of sight and then darted into the room.

  “Martine! In here!”

  He locked the door behind them and opened a filing cabinet. In it, hanging from brass hooks, were hundreds of keys. He began to sort through them methodically, laying them on the floor. Martine checked her watch. It was just after midday. The boat sailed in twenty minutes. She dreaded to imagine the consequences if they hadn’t found Jemmy by then.

  There was a knock at the door. Ben put his finger to his lips. The knock turned into hammering. Martine was a nervous wreck. Ben remained perfectly serene. He examined each key meticulously, as if he had several spare hours up his sleeve, seemingly unconcerned that he was participating in an illegal animal rescue, or that a raging Russian was now attacking the door with what sounded like a fire extinguisher. The pounding ceased and there was the steel echo of footsteps running away.

  “Please!!” Martine panicked.

  “Got it,” said Ben, holding up a bunch of keys. “But we don’t have much time.”

  He unlocked the door and the two of them shot across the passageway and down two more spiral staircases, darting into a supply closet when a couple of grease-stained engineers popped out of a side door. Martine judged that they were now on the bottom of the ship. The air reeked with fumes. The floor shuddered and there was the low grinding roar of great engines coming to life.

  “Do you think we’re going to make it?” whispered Martine.

  Ben didn’t answer. They had reached an intersection of corridors and he was trying to decide which way to go.

  “Oy, oy,” thundered a voice. “What have we here?”

  Out of the gloom came a sun-reddened man with immaculately cut gray hair. He was marching toward them with a ferocious expression on his face.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Ben called out cheerfully.

  The man’s demeanor changed. “Good heavens, Ben,” he said, “I didn’t realize it was you.” He looked at Martine and frowned. “The two of you shouldn’t really be down here, you know. This section is supposed to be off-limits, and we’re sailing in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I was showing my friend Martine around the ship and I lost track of time. I must admit I’m also a little bit lost.”

  “That’s not like you, Ben,” chuckled the man. “You know this boat almost as well as your father does. If you take that passage to the cargo section, you’ll find an elevator going up to the deck. Hurry now. You don’t want to end up in Kazakhstan. Ha ha!”

  Ben thanked him profusely and they ran off down the corridor. Soon they came to a large steel door. A red-lettered sign warned staff that they entered at their own risk and disclaimed any responsibility for injuries, psychological trauma, or death caused by the biting, kicking or venomous inhabitants within.

  Ben pressed the keys into Martine’s hand.

  “This is as far as I go. It’s more than my father’s job is worth for me to be caught down here. When you come out, take the elevator up to level three and cross the gangplank. As soon as you’re on the jetty, look left. You’ll see a path leading up the hill to a pair of tall gates. I’ll make sure they’re open.”

  Martine hesitated. There was one more thing. “Do you think you could try to get a message to my grandmother? ”

  Ben nodded. “It’s a promise. Good luck. You’re on your own now.”

  It took Martine five tries to find the right key. And all the while the ship creaked, seethed, and groaned like a wounded beast. Once or twice, Martine was convinced she felt it shift in its moorings. Finally, the lock clicked. She wrestled
open the heavy steel door, feeling hopeful for the first time that day. As she entered, a nail caught her T-shirt sleeve and ripped a small hole in it. She pulled herself free, barely noticing it.

  As soon as the door hissed shut behind her, the stench of oil, animals, manure, and seawater came at her in a sickly wave. She was in a cramped container area lit with flickering neon tubes. Scores of crates and boxes, many draped with tarpaulins, were stacked in untidy rows in the shadows. Martine rushed over to those nearest to her and peered inside. There were glass cases full of writhing snakes, cages crammed with crestfallen parrots, and boxes full of whimpering monkeys. A huddle of depressed sheep cowered in a crate that was plainly too small for them. The last container on the row housed an enormous blue-bottomed male baboon. When she lifted up the cover, the baboon lunged at the bars of his cage, yellow teeth bared. Martine almost jumped out of her skin.

  There was no sign of the giraffe.

  Martine had never felt more helpless in her life. Her heart ached for all these creatures that had been treated with less regard than a shipment of coal or rice. As if they had no feelings or needs. As if they were immune to thirst or hunger and impervious to pain. But she knew that there was no way on earth for her to save them all now. It was looking increasingly unlikely that she’d even find Jemmy.

  She tried to think logically. There were no obvious labels on the containers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t marked in some way. There had to be a system of identifying them. She studied the boxes nearest to her. Each had a number scribbled on the lower right-hand side of the door. A twinge on her upper arm reminded her of the nail that had torn her sleeve. Something had been swinging from it. Some sort of notebook? Seconds later she had it: No. 144, giraffe, Aisle C.

  She saw No. 144 right away. And if she’d been thinking more clearly, she’d probably have spotted it sooner. It was a black-painted container, higher and wider than the rest. She dashed over to it and whipped the tarpaulin aside. Jemmy was lying on the floor, his legs at odd angles. His white and silver coat was covered in cuts and matted blood. He seemed to be dead.