Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  Cindy smiled. “Kubu. It really fits you, you know. Personality as well, I think. I’ll tell you my given name now if you like. But you must promise not to laugh.” Kubu nodded. “It’s Cinderella. Can you beat that? How can parents do things like that to their children? Have you ever heard of anyone called that before?” Kubu shook his head keeping a straight face. Cindy watched him for a moment. “You’re pretty good,” she said. “You didn’t even check your watch to see how close it was to midnight.” This time Kubu did laugh. Had circumstances been different, he would have enjoyed her company a great deal. Smart and attractive with a good sense of humor. The thought made him worry guiltily if it was too late to call Joy. Now he did check his watch.

  “I need to call my wife. We have a baby, and it’s been a bit of a battle recently. And I am tired after the drive. Will you excuse me?” He climbed to his feet.

  Cindy stood with him and touched his arm. “I hope they’re okay. Thanks for having dinner with me. I hope we can do it again while we’re here. I think you’re quite a special man, Kubu. Good night.” And it was she who turned away and headed for her room leaving Kubu to look after her.

  Khumanego didn’t go straight back to his small room. Instead, he walked down the road that led to the border post at McCarthy’s Rest. After several hundred yards he turned into the barren land that lay beside it. There was just enough light from the quarter moon to pick his way between the scattered thornbushes, past a few stone kraals, until he was far enough from town that he wouldn’t be disturbed.

  He gazed up. The sky was filled with the gods and his ancestors. Watching him, bright-eyed. They were so close, he could hear them whisper. He flung his arms upward to embrace them and started to dance, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Feet stamping, body spinning. Dancing faster and faster. Eyes closed. Spinning. Spinning. His ancestors clapped in time to the music, urging him on. Around and around he went. Around and around. Until he fell onto the red sand, exhausted. And his mind left his body and joined the spirit world.

  When it returned, he was lying on the ground, shaking. Eventually he stood and dusted the sand from his clothes. Then he headed back toward the lights of the town.

  Chapter Six

  “The Bushmen see things very differently from other peoples.”

  Khumanego was sitting in the backseat of the police Land Rover. Lerako was driving, furious that he had to make the long trip yet again, and Kubu was in the passenger seat. Lerako had said it would take about two hours of hard driving to get to where the Bushmen had found the body. He commented that the road had improved a great deal in the past year. Before that it would have taken all day, if they got there at all. Kubu was thankful that the murder had happened this year—the Land Rover was unbearably hot, and the bumping and fishtailing down the sandy road made him very uncomfortable.

  “Your people see themselves as separate from everything,” Khumanego continued. “We see ourselves as part of everything. We are part of the sky and of the earth. And the sky is part of the earth, and the earth part of the sky. Just as the day is part of the night. And night part of day. And you and me are part of each other. When you dream, you change my world, just as my dreams change yours.”

  “That’s nonsense!” Lerako growled. “Rubbish!”

  Khumanego ignored him.

  “When a kudu dies after we have hunted it, we feel its pain, and at the same time, it knows it is providing for us. We have a shared purpose. We never hunt for more than we can eat, because if we did, we would be robbing the animal we had killed. Stealing its destiny. The world would get out of balance. Bad things would happen.

  “When we stop in the desert, we never eat all the food that is available. Or drink all the water. We always leave some for those who come after. We would rather take hunger and thirst with us than leave it behind.

  “We are all part of the same world. All connected. That is why the men you have arrested did not kill the man who died. Bushmen don’t kill other men. If they did, they would be killing themselves.”

  Lerako shook his head, but said nothing.

  The Land Rover continued to bump and slide, and Kubu and Lerako continued to sweat. The heat didn’t seem to affect Khumanego. They drove in silence.

  They trudged to the edge of the donga where Monzo had been found. Lerako pointed down. “That’s where the body was. And the rock used to kill him was further up the donga. Up there.” He waved toward the spot where he had found the calcrete.

  “Let’s take a look,” Kubu said, spotting a less precipitous way into the donga. That was probably the way they’d used to carry Monzo back to the vehicles. He clambered down and stopped where Monzo had been found. Monzo could have fallen, Kubu thought, or been pushed.

  There were footprints everywhere, mostly from heavy boots, but occasionally of small bare feet. Kubu wondered if the Bushmen’s feet had adapted over the years so that as little flesh as possible touched the scorching sand. They had extraordinarily small hands as well, he thought. Where did that come from?

  He walked with Lerako to where the murder weapon had been found. No footprints continued up the riverbed.

  “There were no footprints here before I walked up,” Lerako said, reading Kubu’s mind.

  Kubu could see why Lerako suspected the Bushmen. There was no evidence to implicate anyone else. But what was their motive? It didn’t make sense. He looked around for Khumanego, but he was still standing at the top of the donga watching Kubu and Lerako.

  “Okay,” Kubu said to Lerako. “Let’s go and talk to your suspects’ friends.”

  “How did you find them?” Kubu gasped as the Land Rover slid down a sandy slope into a dry riverbed. Lerako gunned the engine to maintain forward momentum. To stop would mean sinking into the sand, and even though a winch was mounted on the front, there were no trees to which a cable could be attached. We shouldn’t be here alone, Kubu thought. We should have a second vehicle. That’s basic survival procedure. On the other hand, Lerako must have made it before, judging by the tire tracks they were following.

  “We have a Bushman tracker working for us,” Lerako said when he had a moment.

  Although they were moving slowly, avoiding rocks and holes, the engine raced with the gears in low range. Kubu glanced at the temperature gauge. The needle was moving toward the red. Even with all the windows open, the heat from the engine was beginning to overpower even the stifling heat from outside. Sweat poured off the two black men. Khumanego wasn’t sweating, but even he looked uncomfortable.

  “For us, the desert is like a city is to you,” Khumanego said suddenly. “I can tell a friend where to meet me in the middle of this wilderness, and he’ll know how to get there. We have a name for every feature that you see. This riverbed has a name. That bend in the river has a name. That unusual rock on the bank has a name. They are all addresses to us.”

  The Land Rover suddenly rocked violently from side to side. The right front wheel had climbed a small boulder.

  “Shit!” Lerako wrestled with the steering as the wheels jerked to the right. Then there was a loud bang as the wheel descended, dropping the chassis onto the rock.

  “Go, you bitch!” He swung to the left hoping he had enough speed to get off the rock. Another screeching sound as the Land Rover slid off and veered left. In the passenger seat, Kubu was clinging for dear life to whatever was handy. My God, he thought. No wonder the Bushmen walk through the desert.

  The tracks turned toward what appeared to be a sheer wall of sand. Lerako wrestled the wheel and shifted into the lowest gear. Miraculously the Land Rover climbed the steep slope and popped back onto a flat area again.

  A few minutes later, Lerako stopped the vehicle on a piece of hard ground near the trees. Lerako and Kubu opened their doors and staggered out, exhausted from the trip. Khumanego seemed unfazed. They walked to the edge of the trees. Kubu looked around. Surely this was the wrong place? There was nothing here. No huts, no signs of life, no people.

  “You st
ill can’t see, can you, David?” Khumanego exclaimed. “I thought you’d learned all those years ago when I taught you about the desert.” He shook his head. “You think nobody is here. That we’re in the wrong place, don’t you?”

  Kubu nodded.

  “Open your eyes, black man! See that clump of grass over there? Look carefully. See the scherm, the little grass hut? And there’s another one a bit to the left.” Kubu stared and eventually saw what Khumanego was pointing at. It wasn’t a hut in any traditional sense. A few reeds were bent to form an arch. Below them the sand had been shaped to form a small depression. “That’s where they sleep.”

  “What’s that?” Lerako pointed toward a tree where two sticks were stuck in the ground on either side of another small depression.

  “One of the group has marked his area. That’s where he sleeps. The others will respect that space and not walk over it.”

  “Where are they?” Kubu asked.

  Khumanego shouted—a series of clicks and other sounds foreign to Kubu’s ears. Their language is so difficult, he thought. I’ve forgotten everything he taught me. As if by magic, seven figures emerged from the reeds and huddled together thirty or forty yards away. Two men, one very old, three women, and two children.

  “Where are the rest?” Kubu asked.

  “This is everyone except for the three in Tsabong,” Khumanego said. “The desert can’t sustain big groups.” He walked over to the group and squatted on his haunches. The others did likewise. They talked for about ten minutes, sometimes all the adults at once. Eventually Khumanego returned.

  “They are very upset. They don’t know what has happened to the men. Don’t know if they are dead, or if they have been stolen to watch cattle on a farm.” He glared at Lerako. “It’s been very difficult for them to find enough food with only one hunter.”

  He walked to the Land Rover and pulled out a plastic bag he’d brought from Tsabong. He opened it and pulled out dried fruit, biltong, and a large plastic bottle of water.

  “They are very hungry. The men you have in Tsabong are the main hunters. These people haven’t eaten meat since you arrested them.”

  Khumanego handed them the provisions. The younger man carefully divided the fruit and meat into portions of different sizes and handed them out, keeping the largest for himself. The smallest portion went to the old man. Kubu wondered how the division worked, but everyone seemed satisfied with their share. The man opened the bottle, took a long drink and passed it to the old man, who sipped sparingly. Then the women took the bottle, and finally the children. Kubu noticed that more than half of the water was left after all had drunk. The future was always in mind.

  “Please ask them if they have had any problems with the rangers from the park.”

  After a brief consultation, Khumanego reported Monzo often came and shouted at them. He would point to the north and tell them to leave. They couldn’t hunt in this area, so they should go elsewhere. But he had never harmed any of them.

  “The last time that happened was when the sun last chased the moon away. That’s new moon to you. About three weeks ago. That’s about two weeks before he died.” He paused and turned to Kubu. “They want to ask you a question.” Kubu nodded. “They want to know why you are holding their brothers and not looking for the man with big feet.”

  “The man with big feet? Who’s that?” Kubu was perplexed.

  “The man who left his mark near where Monzo was found.”

  “They’ve found some footprints? Why didn’t they tell us?”

  “They found them yesterday. And how would they tell you?”

  Kubu turned to a frowning Lerako.

  “Did you check the whole area around where Monzo was found?”

  “We looked at the top of the donga and up and down the riverbed for about one hundred yards. If someone other than the Bushmen was close to Monzo, he would have had to be flying,” Lerako said defensively.

  “Where are these footprints, Khumanego?”

  “I am not sure. I’ve not seen them. They say they are on the ridge above the riverbed.”

  “Please ask if one of them will show us where they are.”

  Khumanego took the younger man aside, and a long exchange followed with gestures and discussion. Lerako fumed, and Kubu wondered why his simple request was taking so long to resolve. At last Khumanego returned.

  “They will describe to me exactly where to go. But they want you to release their brothers.”

  Kubu turned to Lerako. “I don’t think the men you are holding murdered Monzo. Do you still think they did it?”

  Lerako nodded. “Yes. I do. There’s no indication that anyone else was nearby. My intuition tells me they’re guilty, and I’m usually right. Let’s go and see these so-called footprints.”

  “If the prints are real, will you release them when you return?”

  “Maybe.” Kubu heard the reluctance in his voice. “But I doubt some footprints by themselves will change my mind. There’ll have to be something else.”

  Kubu put his hand on Khumanego’s shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll release the men as soon as we get back to Tsabong. We’ll drop them off as close to here as possible.”

  Lerako glared at him but said nothing.

  “Thank you,” Khumanego murmured. “Before we leave, the old man wants to pay his respects.”

  Lerako shook his head. “I’m not going to waste any more time.” But Kubu was intrigued.

  “What’s his name?”

  “He is Gobiwasi. He remembers you. You were two weeks walk from here, three years ago, looking for a big bird. He means an airplane. What was that about?”

  Kubu recalled meeting Gobiwasi and his group in the desert near Maboane.

  “He helped me solve a difficult case. Provided some very useful information. Please apologize that I don’t have a gift for him.”

  Khumanego translated and then turned to Kubu.

  “He trusts you. He wonders why you think his sons would kill a man.”

  “Tell him that we saw no other footprints near the body, so we wondered who else could be responsible. Tell him also that we now don’t think they killed anybody.”

  Gobiwasi spoke at length at Kubu, ending his speech with burst of laughter and a wide smile of toothless gums.

  Kubu looked at Khumanego quizzically.

  “He says he respects you. He says you have always been fair to his people. He also says you have the mind of a Bushman, but not the body!”

  Kubu laughed and turned to Gobiwasi, one hand over his heart.

  “I will think of myself as an honorary Bushman.”

  Gobiwasi struggled to his feet and held out his hand to Kubu. He spoke again, quietly.

  “He says you will not meet again. He is old and getting ready to move on—to meet his ancestors.”

  Kubu bowed his head. “Tell him that he looks well, not sick, and should live for many more years.”

  Khumanego passed on the message.

  “He says he is now a burden on his family because he cannot hunt. He is an extra mouth they cannot afford to feed. It is time to leave.” He walked over to Gobiwasi and gently took him by the elbow. “Please give me a few minutes alone with him.” Without waiting, he led the old man away.

  Kubu shook his head and wondered whether he would ever understand these little people. Lerako looked as if he were about to explode.

  Khumanego and the old man squatted under a tree with few leaves. Khumanego addressed him respectfully in the IGwi language.

  “Gobiwasi, old man. You are wise. You have seen many things. I fear for the future. For our people.”

  Gobiwasi nodded sadly. “It may be so.”

  “I can talk for only a short time. So I must be direct. I wish to talk of The Place.”

  Gobiwasi looked at him at length with rheumy eyes. “What is this place?”

  “Please, old man. I need to talk about The Place. I am sure that you know about it. I have questions that I must ask.”

 
Gobiwasi rocked back and forward and closed his eyes.

  “It was soon after I killed for the first time,” he whispered. Khumanego had to lean forward to hear. “I shot a springbok and ran after it for many hours, waiting for the poison to work. My father followed me. I remember that the animal smiled as I pushed my spear into its heart. My father watched and said I had become a man.”

  Gobiwasi paused for a long while, dragging memories from deep within.

  “We skinned the animal and cut it into pieces. When we had finished, my father took hold of my right hand. He told me he had a great honor to give me. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He told me of a place near where the sun sets; a hill where the spirits live. The spirits who guide our lives, who look after our people, who provide food and water for us. He said they are the spirits who rule the world, who control our destiny. It is they who judge each of our lives, whether we have lived well or not. He said that this place is known only to a few.”

  Another long pause.

  “I did not know what to think. I wondered if The Place was more sacred than Tsodilo, the birthplace of mankind, which I thought was the most sacred of all places. To be revered and respected. That is where the first spirit knelt down near the top of the Male Hill and blessed the earth after he had created it. I have been to Tsodilo and seen with my own eyes the marks in the rock where the spirit prayed. I have seen the Female Hill, where most of the spirits live, where they rule the world. Could this place be as great even as Tsodilo?”

  “Did you find out?”

  Gobiwasi continued to rock, but said nothing, his eyes still closed.

  “Were you successful?”

  “What is success?”

  “Old man, I need your help. I need the benefit of your wisdom. I have many questions.” There was urgency in his voice.

  Gobiwasi opened his eyes and stared at Khumanego. “I have said too much. I swore not to talk of these things.” He took a deep breath. “I see you are eager, but you must be careful and let the spirits guide you. If you do not, the ancestors will be angry.”