‘Soon a child was born and grew to be happy, although her mother never smiled. The stepmother now plotted to make her stepdaughter smile and made the child plead with her mother to smile at her. But she wouldn’t smile, so the child grew sick with sorrow and died. The same thing happened with the second child. When the third child was born the woman went to the graves of her two older children in anguish, and cried out to Ruhanga, “I have never once disobeyed you; will you not save this little one?”
‘Then Ruhanga appeared and said he had heard her cry. Because she had obeyed him, even to the death of her children, he called her dead children back from the grave. After their joyful reunion Ruhanga touched the woman and she was transformed into the beautiful woman she had been before her grief. He even gave her new white teeth again, and to her husband he gave many cattle. Ruhanga released her from her vow so that for ever more she smiled at her husband and her children; but now she was also filled with a very deep joy, which only those who had obeyed Ruhanga could know.’
Felice pushed a stick a little further into the fire. The cicadas played on a sustained note, while every now and then some beast or night-bird bleated or called.
‘That’s the story of the girl who wanted new white teeth.’
‘Curious,’ Michael said, ‘it has elements of the stories of both Cinderella and Abraham. There must be universal fables.’ A stick in the fire flared. ‘But it’s a very moral tale: blind obedience and you’ll be blessed.’
Felice said quietly, ‘Obedience is not always blind.’
He glanced at her but she was staring into the fire, her eyes shining in the firelight; wistful. Stanley had closed his eyes.
She said, ‘What about you, Michael? What stories did you hear when you were a child?’
He moved himself back from the fire a little – it had become too hot. A log hissed violently, steaming superheated sap. ‘Mainly fairy tales.’
‘OK, tell me,’ she said.
‘I don’t remember much. Religious ones.’ He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
‘Surely they had meanings?’
‘I can recite poems.’
‘But didn’t those stories mean anything to you?’
‘What sort of meaning were you thinking of?’
She bent, picked up a stick and turned it in the flames. ‘Oh, things like . . . that the sacrifices we make are . . .’ Her voice faded.
‘I can recite poems.’
‘Poems?’ She looked surprised and then intrigued. ‘Oh, yes, I’d love that,’ she said, and turned to Stanley, but he had dropped asleep, his chin on his chest, the firelight liquid in the rims of his glasses. She leant towards Michael and said in a whisper, as if they were plotting together, ‘Carry on.’
It took Michael a few seconds to choose a poem, acutely aware that Felice was not some half-drunk party guest, eager to be astounded at his recall faculty, but that she would be listening for the words; would want to be moved. He was struck by the realisation that he had always avoided reflecting on what he recited, and wondered why. Perhaps it was because taking words too seriously had got him into trouble as a child.
He chose Keats.
‘My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk . . .’
Through eight verses he made no errors, his voice even and unaffected, and finished with,
‘Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music – do I wake or sleep?’
The fire glowed contentedly.
‘That’s beautiful,’ Felice said. ‘Really beautiful.’
She let the stick she had been revolving catch light and said, ‘You’ve brought back some memories. Zachye was as talented as you at reciting. He could remember all the Bahima songs. I once saw tears in his eyes when he recited a verse about a drought that starved the cattle. But I imagine he would despise those old ballads now.’
She glanced at Stanley but he was still fast asleep. ‘I’d love to hear another poem.’
‘Well, I don’t know that many,’ he lied. ‘But I can tell you some medical jokes.’
‘Oh, OK! That would be fun.’
He picked his best medical jokes – he could recall jokes as easily as poems – telling them with a dry inflection, rarely having to interpret for her. She laughed freely and leant towards him as they talked on. He saw the fire’s last flames cast new wraiths of beauty about her face. He could not gaze at her long, lest he find himself reaching out to touch her. That night he found it easier than he had ever known to chat about little things.
‘Michael, it’s probably a silly question,’ she said dreamily as the firelight ebbed, ‘but you’ve not been to Uganda before, have you?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing . . . never mind.’
He couldn’t think why Felice would know him from childhood. He felt an urge to tell her about it. It came to him that she was the right person; the only person likely to comprehend; that it would somehow reconnect him to something necessary to break the difficulty he had with his relationships, so that those he had wanted to love, like Naomi, would feel they could understand him; might stay with him. The moment passed.
Stanley slept on.
Seven
Michael slipped out of the cottage early the next morning with his binoculars and guidebook, being careful not to wake Stanley and Felice. He walked past the white ashes of the previous night’s fire and found a broken termite mound, which he used as a vantage point. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon. In the short transition between night and day the scene was as peaceful as an English country park touched by a light morning mist. Nearby two female gazelles grazed, unaware of his presence, their tawny skin velvety over their delicate forms, their lips nuzzling the milky grasses. He imagined stroking them, running his fingers from their firm snouts back over their yielding flanks. A Bible verse came back to him from his junior school days when the class had to learn one verse a week and occasionally, as a treat, could each choose their own. When he had recited his chosen verse to his scripture teacher she had gone crimson and sent him away to learn another; but it was that first verse that had stayed with him: ‘Your two breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies.’
He saw the quivering of the gazelles’ highly tuned muscles when the sun, a molten brilliance even at this early hour, burnt through the mist and lit the taut curves of their haunches. His guidebook said, ‘If pursued by a predator for over two minutes the gazelle may fall dead, the vessels feeding its heart muscle rupturing, pressured beyond tolerance and broken down by a toxic build up of lactic acid. Fortunately for gazelles, a predator has usually given up well within this time frame.’
When he closed the book the gazelles startled and bounded effortlessly away. He sat down and enjoyed the quiet, feeling near to contentment. He allowed himself the remembrance of holidays as a child when he had visited similar places. It pleased him that he could now recall aspects of his childhood without it triggering pain.
He walked back to the cottage, hungry for breakfast having watched so many animals eating. The shower was running in the grass enclosure. Passing the open entrance he saw Felice, naked, beaded with water as if dewed by the dawn. She was reaching across to retrieve her towel from the small bench outside. He could not look away. She saw him as she straightened, the softness of her flexed form firming. When he met her eyes she lowered hers but made no attempt to hide her nakedness. He had the notion that she looked down not for shame, but accepting his gaze, relaxed and receiving – inviting his admiration. Or was it nonchalant disregard? An instant later he had walked on out of view. His step faltered. He wanted to turn back, but he heard a whistling and saw the game warden ahead of him preparing the fire.
Stanley was in fine form at breakfast, no longer tense and tired. ‘We’ve given our problems to God in prayer,’ he said. ‘He’ll worry about Zachye and we’ll appreciate his
creativity here in this wilderness. You see, Michael, God has his plans and we must rest in those.’
Michael ignored the sermon. Felice seemed distracted with other thoughts. He feared she was avoiding talking to him.
The warden had exceeded his job description again, insisting on cooking their maize meal porridge himself. ‘Today I’ll show you what I know. I’ll take you to see the animals,’ he said as he spooned out the runny porridge with a twirling motion, creating a sludgy spiral in their bowls. Michael smelt alcohol on his breath.
‘Are you not going to be afraid?’ Michael asked.
‘In your vehicle, with such brave men, I’ll not be afraid. And I’ll bring my gun.’
‘But you have no ammunition,’ Michael said.
‘We don’t have to shoot to show them who’s boss.’
‘I don’t think we should take a gun,’ Felice said, frowning.
‘Madam, it is regulations. It’s UP56.7 1981. This superseded UP56.6 1972 which itself was modified in 1974. UP stroke Master Appendix 5b is the . . .’
‘That’s all right,’ interrupted Stanley. ‘We understand you must follow the rule book.’
The game warden’s class work made him an effective guide. From the safety of the vehicle there was no creature he could not name in English and Latin. He described their length of gestation, survival chances to their first birthday, their social behaviour and their mating habits – in unnecessary detail. He even ventured out of the vehicle onto the road to study some tracks, which he declared as belonging to a leopard, before returning rapidly to his seat and closing the door firmly.
‘Why don’t you take pictures?’ asked Stanley to Michael, as they watched a fine male waterbuck.
‘I haven’t got anyone back home who’s going to be interested in looking at them.’ Naomi might have, he thought, with a pang of regret, but he would not have wanted the inevitable questioning from her that would have required him to mention Felice. Naomi had shown herself to be sensitive to any hint in his voice of admiration for other women, however innocent the aside.
Stanley said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You must be too busy with your work. But I thought all Europeans took pictures to remind themselves of their experiences.’
‘I’ve a good memory – for most things. The things I want to remember.’ He had an urge to confide that which he had tried to forget, but this was not the time, and Felice was pointing excitedly to an ostrich walking along like an enormous Donald Duck in a frilly, oversized, black tutu.
‘Michael, look! There’s a large chicken. Be afraid!’
They were returning to the camp when Stanley said, ‘There’s smoke over there.’
The game warden leant forward and looked ahead, intently, as if identifying another animal, but said in a high pitched voice, the voice they had heard yesterday when Felice had disturbed the snake, ‘It’s a bush fire. It may have been started by poachers – or bandits.’
He fingered the barrel of his rifle.
‘They’re driving out the animals so they can shoot them. Go fast to the camp. They’ll not come there.’
As they neared the top of a small rise in the road Michael could see ahead a shimmering heat haze in which ashen ghosts of grass and twig tumbled and twisted in the agonised air. The fire came into view: less a line of flames, more a zone of flarings of brilliant, amber light. Amber for danger. Dark-silhouetted against the burning, a group of ragged men walked unfalteringly down the road towards the vehicle. Their baseball cap peaks jutted out aggressively; their rifles gripped purposefully.
‘No, no, bad, bad! Bandits!’ the game warden said, in a strained whisper.
Stanley braked to a stop. Felice, sitting beside him, put a hand to her mouth. Michael moved instantly into that clear-headed decision-making state that he knew so well, although this time he was acutely aware that it was his own life that was at stake, not a patient’s. Even as Stanley was slowing the vehicle Michael had seen that diplomacy was now the only strategy. He felt a movement against his leg and noticed that the game warden was no longer sitting next to him but had slipped into the footwell and huddled face down, legs folded tightly underneath him. What does he think he’s doing? He’s bound to be seen, thought Michael, his heart kicking at the implications of this display of cringing terror.
The bandits swung their rifles up as they approached. Three of them stopped a few metres in front of the vehicle, lining up like a firing squad. The fourth came round to Stanley’s side. His movements were slow and careful. He said nothing, just inspected them, moving his barrel from person to person. Michael had the chilling sensation that they were being sized up by something insentient: an unblinking reptile with a snake-cold stare. Something without a soul.
Stanley said, ‘Is there anything you want?’
The man scanned the vehicle again. He looked hard at Michael but then rested his eyes on Felice.
He spoke slowly and deliberately, ‘I want that woman. Tell her to get out.’
‘You’ll have to kill me first,’ Stanley said. ‘But remember that God will judge you.’
The man turned his gun towards Stanley. Michael found himself unable to take his eyes off the hole at the end of the barrel; as if he could warn Stanley when the bullet appeared. Then he remembered Stanley’s comment about the white man giving them some protection. He would play whatever card was available. He said urgently, ‘Excuse me, mister. Do you know who I am? Before you harm us, you should know.’
The man turned the gun slowly towards Michael. ‘Who?’ he said, conveying contempt in one word. He had still not blinked.
‘I’m Her Majesty’s ambassador. These friends are taking me on a game drive. If you do us harm my government will not rest until you’re found and brought to justice. But if you let us pass on our way you’ll be safe.’ The bandit blinked. ‘I’ll also give you money. Dollars and sterling.’
Michael stared unwaveringly at the man, trying to project himself as the embodied presence of a world power.
‘Where’s your escort, Mr Ambassador?’ he asked, with the beginning of a sneer.
‘They’re near, we were expected back before now, so soon they’ll come looking for us. Take my money now before they arrive.’
Michael leant sideways and reached into his pocket for his wallet, trying to appear like a man who has acquiesced with reasonable grace to a less than perfect deal. His mouth dried as he realised its contents would confirm him as someone other than the ambassador. He hoped that the bandit would just take the wad of notes he was extracting.
The bandit kept his gun on Michael but turned to Stanley. ‘Is he the British Ambassador?’
Stanley did not answer.
The bandit bared his teeth and turned the gun to poke the barrel into Stanley’s shoulder. ‘Is he the British Ambassador?’
Lie, Stanley, for pity’s sake, lie, thought Michael. You can ask for forgiveness afterwards.
‘No, he’s not the British Ambassador, but he’s a good man. He’s trying to protect us.’
‘Ha!’ the bandit said in derision, and then Michael saw his face harden, his eyes narrowing as if a scaly slit was shuttering down. He was going to do what he was going to do.
Felice cried out, but she was not looking at the bandit; she was looking ahead at the men in the road.
‘Zachye! There’s Zachye!’
One of the three men had lowered his rifle and was staring back at Felice.
The bandit looked back at his companion, and then at Felice.
‘You know him?’
‘Yes, he’s . . . our brother.’
The bandit shouted at Zachye.
Zachye nodded, still staring.
The fire had worked its way down the side of the road, jumping from bush to bush, the smouldering grass creating a dense smoke, the front of which now wisped around the men.
‘He’s my brother!’ Stanley said excitedly. ‘Let me speak to him.’
The bandit strode back to Zachye and shouted in his face.
Zachye answered without expression, his eyes still on Felice. The leader hesitated for a moment, then spun around towards the vehicle and waved his arm to motion them forward.
‘Go!’ he shouted.
They drove forward as the bandits parted to let them pass, their rifles now held at ease. Stanley slowed when he got level with Zachye, leaning out to speak to him, but the bandit leader screamed again, ‘Go!’
They picked up speed towards the smoke across the road. Another five seconds and they would be hidden from the bandits’ view.
The game warden lifted himself from the foot well. ‘We’re saved,’ he cried, hoisting and shaking his rifle in triumph.
The panicked shouts from behind made Michael turn. All the men were taking aim. He did not hear the shot above the noise of the revving engine, but heard two sounds from within the vehicle, both quiet, like a light tap on metal. A shard of metal fell hot against Michael’s leg creating a tiny smouldering hole in his trousers. The smoke of the bushfire enveloped the vehicle but Stanley kept going. Michael looked behind again. The game warden was pointing to a hole in the rear door of the Land Rover. In his other hand he still held his rifle to the roof as if it was a spear.
Michael asked, ‘Is everyone all right?’
‘I’m hurt,’ Stanley gasped.
He was bent forward, supporting himself against the steering wheel. Michael saw that the bandits were hidden by the smoke and said, ‘Stop the vehicle. I’ll take over.’
Stanley braked, groaning with the effort. Michael jumped out and opened Stanley’s door. A fan of blood was spreading on the side of Stanley’s shirt. Michael yanked it up and saw a small entry wound in the right side of his abdomen. Pressure would be pointless on that. He looked for an exit wound but there was none. Michael shouted to the game warden to get off the floor again and help him lie Stanley down on the rear seat.
‘Felice, sit in the back with him.’
The smoke choked Michael as he took the driver’s seat. He smacked the gearstick into first and accelerated away through a kettle-black landscape dotted with stark skeletal remains of bush and sapling.
The Ghosts of Eden Page 27