Journey from Darkness

by Gareth Crocker

  ‘You do realise that our whole plan hinges on this little fable about ancient Desert Elephant tribes actually being true?’

  ‘I know,’ he shrugged.

  ‘You also understand that when you go out this morning you may very well find her lying in a heap somewhere?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And if she is still alive, she may decide against following the Limpopo and instead head east or north. What then? It kind of blows our plan out the water.’

  ‘It’s a fair point, but to be honest,’ Derek began, pointing to the heavens. ‘I’m far more concerned about that.’

  ‘What? The weather?’

  ‘No … the sky. It may fall on our heads. Then we’re truly buggered.’

  Edward sighed and shook his head. ‘I hate you. You know that?’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  He was about to insist that he did, when Andrew and Maquaasi appeared through the early-morning murk. ‘A fine day for a stroll through the bush. What do you think?’ the professor asked, slapping Derek on his back.

  ‘Morning, Andrew … Master Maquaasi,’ Derek said with special emphasis.

  Handshakes and nods all round.

  ‘So, Maquaasi,’ Edward began, ‘you ready to help find our elephant?’

  ‘Yes,’ he beamed back.

  ‘As Andrew explained, you just have to track her down for Derek and return to camp. That’s it.’

  The diminutive Shangaan nodded back at Edward, all eyes and teeth in the darkness.

  ‘How are you feeling, son?’ the professor asked.

  ‘Very good. Eager to get a move on. Our girl’s got a big lead on us,’ Derek replied. ‘In fact, I think Maquaasi and I should get going right now. We all know the plan, anyway. There’s no point in running through it again.’

  ‘Wait,’ Edward stopped him. ‘There’s something I want you to have.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for his tent. Moments later he returned, cradling a rifle. ‘Here, I want you to take mine. It’s in much better condition than yours.’

  Derek wrapped his hands around the scarred wooden stock of the famous Lee Enfield and, almost immediately, memories leapt out at him. The rifle was standard issue for virtually all British soldiers in the war and, despite its link to those dark days, he felt a sudden warmth course through him. The Lee Enfield had saved his life more than once. ‘Thanks, Ed. I’ll take good care of her.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Edward shot back, handing him a box of ammunition. ‘Remember what we spoke about. As much as you want to protect her, if she gets too sick you have a responsibility to end her pain.’

  ‘I know. I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘All right,’ he replied, visibly steeling himself. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  ‘Almost. There’s just one last thing.’

  ‘What?’ the professor asked.

  ‘Well, if I’m going to be writing about our elephant, I think she deserves a name.’

  ‘Of course. Good idea. Any suggestions?’

  Derek and Edward looked at each other, but both drew a blank.

  ‘I’m thinking Mildred’s out,’ Derek grinned.

  ‘Shawu,’ Maquaasi suddenly said.

  ‘Shawu,’ Derek repeated. ‘I like it. What does it mean?’

  ‘Taller than the trees.’

  ‘That’s perfect. Unless there are any objections, Shawu it is.’

  Maquaasi’s face lit up as his suggestion was adopted.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s it then. Time to go.’

  ‘Be careful out there, my boy. Keep your wits about you.’

  ‘I will, Andrew. Thank you for everything. I’ll see you soon,’ he replied, shaking the professor’s hand. He then turned to Edward. ‘Look after yourself, big brother.’

  ‘I meant what I said earlier.’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘I do hate you.’

  Derek stepped forward and placed a hand on Edward’s shoulder. ‘I know the feeling,’ he said softly. With his other hand, he slipped a parting gift into his brother’s pocket.

  ‘Try not to get stood on,’ Edward offered, his voice faltering.

  As he walked away, Derek nodded and then stroked the side of his face, which was sporting an uncharacteristic mat of stubble. ‘You know, Ed, as much as I bloody hate to admit it, you were right about one thing.’

  ‘Really? And what’s that?’

  ‘About this place and what it does to you after a while.’

  Edward raised his arms above his head. ‘I give up. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m just saying that after a while … it just feels right,’ he continued. He then winked and tapped his left hip.

  As the penny fell, Edward rummaged through his pockets. He quickly found what Derek had slipped him and fished it out. ‘I’m your older brother,’ he called out, laughing. ‘I’m never wrong.’

  The professor frowned at Edward, missing the joke. ‘I don’t get it. Why’d he give you his razor?’

  PART 3

  The Ancient Trail

  17

  For the next two hours, Derek and Maquaasi barely exchanged a word. Maquaasi had his chin pinned to his chest, concentrating on the track, while Derek was enthralled by a natural changing of the guard that was occurring around them. There was a special period in the bush, a honeymoon shortly before sunrise, when most animals were awake. Nocturnal creatures slunk back to their dens and burrows as their diurnal counterparts prepared for sunrise. It was a window through which one might see an owl and a raptor arcing and wheeling against the same sky, hear the songs of crickets and day birds chorusing together. Some animals, like the hyena and the warthog, sometimes even shared the same burrows, alternating shifts like deckhands on a freight ship. The larger meat eaters meandered amorphously between trees in deep patches of shadow, some returning from a hunt, some embarking on one. It was a notoriously dangerous time to be travelling through the bush. Twice the predators meant twice the threat.

  The sudden cries of a baboon, shrill and desperate, caused them both to stop in their tracks. The animal, clearly fighting for its life in a tree somewhere ahead of them, thrashed in the branches for several seconds before falling silent, most likely quieted by the jaws of a leopard. As if observing an ancient and unspoken bush protocol, the crickets and birds abandoned their songs for a moment. But it was little more than a respectful pause. Life and death existed commonly in the bush.

  ‘There!’ Maquaasi whispered.

  Derek turned quickly to his left, his heart surging. How could they have found her so soon? By their calculations at the campfire, she still should have been hours away.

  And yet, to his amazement, there she was – stripping leaves from a tall branch at the bottom of yet another steep hill. They watched as she moved between a row of green-and-yellow trees, casually sampling their bark. She was walking freely now and using her ears, the twin giant maps of Africa, to fan herself slowly.

  Derek reached out and cupped his hand on Maquaasi’s shoulder. ‘You really are the best tracker in Africa.’

  The diminutive Shangaan bowed his head, humbly accepting the compliment.

  Tightening the strap on his bag, Derek broke into a run, half-striding and half-sliding down the steep slope. As he reached the bottom, he eased up and drew to a halt less than a hundred yards from where she was feeding. Alerted by his heavy footfalls on the gravel, she turned to face him.

  For a while she just stared at him, her ears flapping languidly in the light breeze.

  ‘Thanks for waiting,’ Derek said, his hands pressed to his hips.

  As if to confirm his remark, or perhaps to get away from him, Shawu slowly turned around and began to walk.

  Barely minutes after Maquaasi’s departure, Shawu had veered north, just as Derek had hoped. They spent the rest of the morning drifting through tracts of largely treeless land, areas where the only vegetation was the occasional thorn tree dotted in a forever landscape of mopane bu
sh. It was a stark and arid beauty that appeared endless. To Derek’s relief, Shawu was walking well and no longer seemed particularly burdened by her injured leg. It was a good start; better than he had hoped for. But it remained just that: a start. The miles would soon expose any weakness in the leg.

  While the sun broadened its stare, Derek noticed how the leaves of the mopane bushes were folded in half, an act of protection against the punishing heat. It was an ingenious survival tactic given that, in the height of summer, the temperature on the ground could crack rocks.

  By late afternoon, as the sun finally retreated over the horizon, Shawu found a solitary thorn tree to rest up against. Mercifully, it appeared that their first day’s journey was at an end. She rubbed her neck against a thick branch, regarded Derek wearily for a moment, and then turned away from him.

  Derek threw down his bag onto a patch of soft grass and allowed himself to follow after it. He slipped off his shoes and massaged his feet through his socks. When he was done, he reached for his water canister and allowed himself a few generous sips before carefully replacing the lid. He was wary of wasting even a few drops. In a temperate climate, a person could survive for perhaps three days or so without water. In the bush, under a searing sun, complete dehydration was only hours away.

  If Shawu was indeed headed to the Limpopo River, and provided they could make it there within the next ten days, Derek would only have another day’s walk to make it to the supplies that Edward and Andrew would be leaving for him. Their plan was to bury provisions at twenty-mile intervals. At first they thought of wrapping white rope or bright strips of fabric around the trunks of large trees on the banks to indicate where the provisions would be stowed, but they quickly abandoned the idea as the material could easily be torn away by any number of animals. So they had instead agreed that Edward would find a large boulder on the riverbank where he would paint the distinctive St George’s cross in bright red and white. The provisions would then be dug into the earth beside the boulder.

  So, provided everything went according to plan, Derek would only have to get through the next week and a half before his supplies would be replenished. At a stretch, he could probably survive on what he had in his bag, but realistically he knew he would have to supplement his rations with whatever else he could draw from the bush.

  The thought of having to survive off the land was exhilarating, yet unnerving at the same time.

  As he watched Shawu settle down in the fading light, he brought his knees up to his chest and stared out over the horizon. The bush seemed at peace in the late afternoon, as if whatever dramas it held had either been played out already or had been postponed for another time. But then again perhaps not, he thought, noticing half a dozen specks circling above the dying sun. Vultures, hovering over the freshly decanted blood of some poor animal, waiting for their turn to feed. Life, feasting on death.

  Stretching and then rubbing his eyes, he reached for his rifle. Turning its worn wooden stock in his hands, he realised that several words and messages had been carved into its surface. Although the rifle had been Edward’s, his brother had not been its sole owner – far from it. It had almost certainly passed through the hands of several soldiers during the war. Some still living, most not.

  He noticed that some of the words were now only faint impressions, distant scars, suggesting they had been carved many years ago. The more recent messages were considerably more pronounced. From this, together with the style of etching, he was able to read – more or less along a historical timeline – the thoughts of at least one soldier.

  The first engraving was full of daring and bravado, a youthful arrogance.

  Run, Kraut, run!

  It was the kind of inscription that Derek himself might have authored in those early days of the war. The second message spoke of a similar confidence, but some of the shine was now gone. Be home for Christmas.

  And then, predictably, the tone of the messages began to darken.

  One read: July 1916. The Somme. Dead everywhere. Hope fading.

  Another was partially obscured by an indentation in the wood. It read: Evil is here. Or perhaps: Devil is here.

  The final message, by some margin the clearest, carried everything Derek knew to be true about the war. It spoke of lost innocence and the betrayal of a generation, who in handing the torch down to their children, had offered the flame and not the handle.

  Forsaken.

  18

  It was an old hut, unremarkable in almost every respect. Built square and squat, its roof now sagging, and with the opaque glass eyes of a man on his deathbed, there was very little that distinguished it from any one of a hundred such dying structures dotted throughout the bush. Its mouth was a large and crooked front door from which a decaying and pockmarked veranda rolled out like a diseased wooden tongue. Like most dwellings in the area, it was steadily being reclaimed by the surrounding land. Set in the throat of an isolated valley, thick roots and branches were slowly lifting floorboards and crawling between planks. A latticework of green and black vines hung over the roof while termites and other insects worked together to digest and gnaw away at the bonds that held it together. It was unexceptional in almost every sense.

  Every sense, but one.

  The entire structure, every inch of board, was coated in a heavy floor paint commonly used to protect exposed brick porches from the sun. What made this so notable was its colour.

  Originally a deep claret, it had now faded to the colour of fresh blood. Small sections of the hut that had been shielded from the worst of the sun retained much of the original shade and now appeared like darkened scabs on an open wound.

  The hut was not merely dying; it was bleeding to death.

  Xavier sat on the edge of the veranda and stared out into the bush. They weren’t quite in the middle of nowhere, but they were within sight of it. His arms were still tired and stiff from all the sawing, but it had been well worth the exertion. In all his time behind the rifle, he had never seen such ivory, never even heard of such remarkable bones. Nobody had, he was certain. He had already contacted his top buyers and would spend the next few days playing them off against each other until he finally received a bid he was satisfied with. At a time when so few elephants remained, the haul almost defied belief; it was one final storm before the drought. But in spite of his good fortune, he remained regretful of one thing. He had failed to bring down the matriarch, and it was burning him. Her tusks alone would’ve set him up for the rest of the year. The fact that she had nearly killed him and his brother only worsened matters. It made the smouldering fire in his chest glow knuckle-white.

  ‘I think something’s broken,’ Requin complained, limping out onto the veranda. Bare-chested, his arm was cradled around his stomach, his hand hovering over a large purple bruise on his shoulder. ‘My chest is killing me.’

  Xavier kept his back turned. ‘What’ve you done with them?’

  ‘The ivory? It’s out back, just like you asked.’

  ‘Is it covered?’

  ‘Oui. Oui. Xavier, I think I need a doctor. It’s not getting any better. It feels like something’s cracked–’

  ‘How did you cover them?’

  ‘Same as always.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ he hissed, his eyes half-mast. ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  ‘You’ll live,’ Xavier replied, and then added, ‘unfortunately.’

  Requin groaned, self-pity distorting his features even further, and then sat down on the steps. Uninterested in his brother’s complaints, Xavier looked down at his arms and noticed they were coated in a veil of fine white powder – sawdust from the ivory. He wiped them down with the bottom of his shirt and watched as a dark-blue tattoo reappeared on the inside of his left wrist – the French Foreign Legion’s insignia. He glared at the emblem, deeply regretting that he had ever allowed it to desecrate his body. And then, suddenly, decided it was unacceptable to him. He would no longer tolerate it. That of whi
ch he was once a part now sickened him. The tattoo was a constant reminder of the war and how the Legion had betrayed and deserted him. As his mind drew back to that time, he felt the familiar seeds of anger twist and screw in his blood. He reached for his hunting knife and pressed the freshly sharpened blade against his skin. He would not allow his own body to torment him. ‘Requin,’ he called out, ‘bring me some fishing line. And a hook.’

  Before Leiden Castle was a prison camp, it was a sanatorium. More than two hundred years old, it was as much a dominating feature of Dresden as the distinctive River Elbe that flowed through it. Made largely of natural stone and built deep into the side of a mountain, it was chosen by the Germans as a prison camp for several reasons, but most notably because more than half of it existed beneath the ground. Underneath the towers and parapets, Leiden Castle was a vast catacomb of caves and chambers, dank cellars interconnected by a series of narrow passages and tunnels, black veins that coiled and burrowed under the town’s skin. Initially used to store food and supplies, and later some of the region’s most disturbed minds, in the war it was home to many of Germany’s notorious prisoners. It was a place where ranking officers who knew things were persuaded to part with their knowledge. Where men of infamy, guilty of either atrocities against Germany or renowned for their ability to escape capture, were brought to account for their sins. Not only did Leiden Castle virtually guarantee that these men would not escape their shackles and would be kept out of sight but, once they were underground, prison guards were free to act without discretion.

  In short, Leiden Castle was a torture chamber. Half of those who entered never left. Many who perished did so by their own hand, embracing death over torture.

  Xavier and Requin had been brought to the castle after being captured in France. The only reason they had been kept alive was because of Xavier’s rank in the French Foreign Legion. German informants believed he was privy to important information pertaining to various incursions and were determined to find out what he knew.