by Tim Merriman
“What are you going to do without that artificial leg, young man? Looks to me like you need that to get around.” Masozi’s smile fell.
“I am worried, Mr. Gus. I have no way to fix it and no way to replace it. I will slow the others down now and I fear they must go on without me.”
“Let me think on that while we roll along. You best get some sleep while you can. We’re gonna roll on east all night long. You’ll be getting close to Ohio by tomorrow.”
The kids crawled onto one of the two bunks without protest. Daudi pulled out the book, opened it in the middle and began to read.
They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried away from the scent of the flowers he sleeps on and on forever. But Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep. . ..
Gus left them to their reading to climb out the door and into the supply car next to his sleeper caboose. When he came back in he was astonished to find them all asleep in a heap.
“Well, my word. These kids are truly tired. It’s only eight o’clock and they’re out like a brakeman’s light with a low battery.” He gently carried each of them to his bigger bunk. They didn’t stir, just settled in, curled up like puppies on top of the softer blankets. Gus sat on the edge of the small cot, then found his whittling knife and stick. As he whittled, he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Masozi’s stump of a leg. The stump was calloused with lumps of hardened scar tissue from countless hours of skin rubbed raw and healed over and over.
Gus shook his head, imagining the times these kids had lived through. Finally, he put his pocketknife aside and used the stick to measure Masozi’s good leg and the length of the stump. Then he went back into the supply car and rummaged, while he sang an old-time gospel song to himself. Gus returned to the dim light of his sleeper car and sat down on a stool with a nice shaft of black cherry he had been saving for some special project. It had an extraordinary root grain and would be hard to carve, but mighty handsome when done. He ran his hands over the wood, feeling the piece it would become. He smiled, thinking this piece of wood was going to have a good run in its second life. He just needed to be the go-between and do a good job with his craft. He settled into his two favorite joys in life, whittling and singing in a soft, clear baritone through the evening.
By midnight he was sanding his masterpiece. He had found some bits of tough rubber from a tie-down strap and had taken one of the patch pockets off his sheepskin coat. Now he just needed to find some leather scraps. Finally he decided his old leather belt had a better use than keeping his pants up over his substantial belly. He put the finishing touches on the leg and called it a night. When he went to sleep, the words of a gospel tune called God Sent an Angel turned over in his mind. He wanted to be that angel for a time, even if self-appointed. Seemed the thing to do. When he laid himself down on the smaller cot, he was happier than he’d been since losing his wife to cancer a few months back. He had found that right thing to do on a day when nothing was due to happen but rolling and rumbling on these old steel ribbons. Gus smiled as he fell asleep, still humming softly.
* * *
Rosa went back to her cabin and wrote like a demon possessed. Her article came together quickly and she chose four photos that were all potential award winners. The best showed the three kids in the Leopard Tree reading the book. She called her friend at Global Press and prayed he would be in.
Ilan did not answer his cell phone, so she tried the switchboard.
“He’s somewhere in the building. I’ll page him to call you. Give me a number,” the receptionist suggested.
Rosa gave her cell number and waited, rereading the article, drumming a pencil like Ringo Starr and hoping Ilan was not off on a lunch date turning into a golf outing. Ilan lived to play golf.
“Heeeeeee-hawwwwww.” Rosa’s phone whinnied like a horse and startled her, the very reason she used the raucous alert. “Hello, Rosa Carson here.”
“Rosa, Ilan here. How are you?”
“I’m great, and how’s your game?” She was thinking, enough of this silly chitchat already, but knew the stakes were high enough that she needed to play this just right to get what she needed.
“My slice has turned into a hook. I’m trying to find golf balls that float to save on money.”
“If I find some, I’ll let you know.” She paused, then decided to dive right in. “Ilan, I need a favor.”
“I owe you a dozen or two, start asking,” Ilan said, surprising her. She expected the usual resistance to her usual statement that she had the best story in the world.
“Okay, this is, well, okay, I know I always say this, but this really is the best story in the world.” Ilan started to chuckle.
“Just read it, Ilan. Okay?”
“Sure, Rosa. Just send it in and I’ll get to it sometime this week.”
“Ilan, here’s the thing. This story is something that can’t wait. You need it today.”
“You’re dreaming, Rosa. I’m forty-five minutes from deadline today.”
“Just listen. I have a cable modem. I’m going to upload the story and then four photos. Just read it, look at the photos, call me back and then say no. If you can.”
“Okay, fire it at me. I’ll call back with a solid no in half an hour or less. Really, Rosa, they can’t all be the best stories in the world. You need a new line.”
He hung up and she sent the file immediately. It uploaded in less than four minutes, a new record for nine megabytes. Something was going right for a change. Rosa sat and waited, fidgeting, making coffee, looking at the lake, and checking on the two sea kayaks hanging in the boat shed. After forty-five minutes, the phone finally rang. She picked it up with dread.
“Rosa here.”
“Rosa, wow!”
“Isn’t it past deadline for today?”
“Yes, it is. Would you have preferred I called you and gush or get it on the wire? I got it on the wire.”
“You are my hero.”
“Don’t you want to know what it pays?” he teased her.
“Scale is fine, Ilan. I’m not going to quibble as long as it’s out there.”
“I gave you top dollar. I’m stunned by this piece. What else can I do for you?” he asked sincerely.
“Pray I find them, Ilan. These kids are special to me.”
“I think they’re going to be special to lots of people, Rosa. Thanks for calling me and no one else. You didn’t call Reuters, did you?” he chided.
“You’re the best guy I know, Ilan. Thanks again.”
“Watch the evening news gal, and if you want to get to know a mid-sixties editor better, get yourself up here.”
“You’d be my first pick, Ilan, and if I hadn’t married a plane ticket, I’d be out there on the fairways with you. Have fun,” she said, hitting the off button on the phone.
She thought about her options and walked down to the lake. It was too early for news shows. She lowered the single seat-kayak with a winch, pulled up the lake door and climbed in. She paddled out into the lake, shooting through the water as if super-powered. Adrenaline from the phone call had given her need of a good workout and the kayak was her favorite way to burn off energy. She paddled faster and faster until her mind calmed as she entered a familiar zone. She felt at one with the water, the air, and the Africans. Wherever they were, she wanted to be with them and hoped what she’d done would make that happen.
Chapter Twelve
Masozi yawned and stretched, his nose lifting into the smoky aroma of bacon cooking. He started to get up but only landed one foot on the ground. He remembered he no longer had his other leg and sighe
d, shrugged his shoulders as though to shake off the disappointment and then hopped toward the smell, landing hard on the stool in the way.
“Watch out there, young man. You’ll get fed in a few minutes when the eggs and grits are done, not sooner. You really need a new leg, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”
“You are right, Mr. Gus. I am missing my leg. I will have to adjust to being one-legged again. I did it before,” he said optimistically.
“Well, maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Here, take a look at this thing,” Gus said self-consciously, realizing Masozi could not see what he held. He extended the beautifully oiled leg-shaped wooden peg with a rubberized pad on the foot and a piece of fleecy sheepskin to pad the end against the stump of Masozi’s leg.
Masozi held the wooden leg with reverence. It felt strange and familiar at the same time. Quietly, he said, “Is this for me?”
“Yessir. It’s a piece of wood I was saving for just the right whittling project and you showed up with it.”
“Mr. Gus, I am speechless.”
Daudi had wakened and listened to the exchange. “We must enjoy him being speechless, Mr. Gus. It is not a common circumstance.” He laughed, knowing Masozi was smiling.
“Yes, but it is only because I have so much to say of such great importance, Daudi. You neglected to say that,” Masozi said. The teasing tone dropped from his voice as he held out the wooden appendage.
“Look at my new leg. Mr. Gus carved it last night. It feels beautiful, so smooth, with this special design along the outside. Is this a cat of some sort? I feel the ears and face, the legs. It has spots, does it not?” Daudi took the leg and ran his fingers along the intricately carved animal wrapped around the shining wood.
“It is a leopard, Masozi. A leopard.”
“Yes, it is,” Gus said. “I thought it could be Masozi’s special charm, what with you boys being from Africa and all. Is that okay?”
“It is beautiful, Mr. Gus, but how will he keep it on?” Daudi asked.
“We have to figure that out. Masozi, you had some method of keeping the old one on. Help me figure out a new strap-on system. I’ve got some leather we can work with and we’ll whip this little problem together, but first we eat. Wake young Ramla. It’s time for the best vittles north of Dublin, Georgia. That’s where I’m from originally, just like y’all are from Africa.”
The kids dug into Gus’s breakfast. Farm-fresh eggs, bacon, and big clots of butter swimming in hot grits had Masozi asking for seconds and then thirds. Gus had prepared plenty and when they were all sated, Gus and Masozi went to work on a strap system for the leg. In less than half an hour, they had it ready to try on.
“This fits much better than the leg the train smashed and the cushion at the top is much more comfortable. You will have to run faster than a cheetah to catch me, Daudi.”
“You are the cheetah among us. I will always be slower. But that is just fine with me.” Daudi’s smile faded as he hacked and coughed until tears ran down his face.
“You okay, Daudi?” Gus asked. “You’ve got an awful cough.”
“I am fine. It is just the air or something. I always cough a little,” he admitted.
Ramla studied him with concern. The cough seemed to be getting worse almost every day. Daudi was getting sick. They could choose not to talk about it, but it was beginning to get difficult to ignore.
* * *
Rosa had watched the local evening news and nothing of her story appeared on the television. she expected the War in Iraq, War on Terror, Afghani War, and the president’s pending vacation to be bigger news, and they were. She nestled into the bed at the cabin by nine o’clock and was wide awake by five the next morning. She took another turn around the lake in the kayak, cruising close to great blue and green herons at every turn. A kingfisher zipped past the kayak, chattering his displeasure at her presence. When she stowed the kayak and returned to the cabin, she turned the TV on immediately to catch the early news on the Global News Network. She grabbed one of the containers of yogurt Nancy had sent home with her and plopped into the easy chair just as Lupita O’Leary was opening a story.
“Three young people are on the quest of a lifetime, bringing them from faraway Kenya to the plains of Illinois . . ..” Rosa sat upright, stunned that Ilan’s posting had been picked up by GNN. She had hoped for statewide reporting, but this was far better.
“These African orphans are very much on their own, trying to make their way to New York City to attend a U.N. conference on Children in Crisis. One is HIV-positive, another lacks vision and a leg, and the young lady has not spoken for several years since witnessing unspeakable terror inflicted on her family,” Lupita continued. Rosa’s photos slowly morphed in the side panel. When the one of the three Kenyans perched in the Leopard Tree rolled up, the image grew to fill the screen.
“Together, they left the relative security of their native Kenya and have already traversed over 10,000 miles with nothing more to guide them than a dream of meeting with Kamau Akama. The current whereabouts of the children is unknown, though they were last seen near Vandalia, Illinois. If you should see them, please help by contacting GNN. We want to see they arrive in New York safely.” And then Aidan Kleinan was on to a story about Tiger Woods winning yet another major golf tournament.
Rosa sighed and then dialed in a number for a friend at GNN to make sure her cell phone number had been part of the GP story. She didn’t want to miss any calls, but Ilan had clearly indicated her cell phone should be called with any new information from any source. She flipped over to the This Day show and Mark Bower was just finishing the story.
* * *
Rosa flipped through the channels and found her story running on three more national stations. She thought about her options and decided she would rather be driving and thinking about where to find them than sitting in her cabin, wondering what to do next. She tried to think where they might turn up next, knowing they would continue to press east towards New York. They kept getting ahead of her, so she needed to try to get someplace before they did. She looked at the map, then booked a flight from St. Louis to Philadelphia. She checked in for her flight an hour and a half early and quietly cursed the incredibly slow security line onto the concourse at Lambert Field.
When she settled into the plane, the phone still had not rung, so she turned it off and tried to read a novel. Her mind was whirling with thoughts about what to do when she landed at Philly. Her busy travel schedule for bigger stories would have to wait. This had become the one story that mattered to her. She had family in trouble and wanted to be there for them.
* * *
Masozi could not keep still. He walked around and around in the very tight space in the caboose. Gus chuckled at Masozi’s energy and willingness to show off his new leg. Daudi tried to enjoy the spectacle, but coughed spasmodically every few minutes. Ramla sat by him, holding his hand, more interested in Daudi’s health than Masozi’s antics. When the coughing continued, Masozi finally stopped moving long enough to suggest that Daudi may need to see a doctor.
Gus spoke immediately, “Masozi’s right. I can help you find a place to get medical help. It’s time you got that checked out. Probably nothing, but best to know.”
“I am sure it will go away if we just wait a few days,” Daudi said, lacking conviction that it would improve on its own. Gus looked at Daudi’s downcast eyes. He knew that Daudi had to be torn between wanting to feel better, fear of getting caught, and the greater concern that his illness would overtake him before they could accomplish their mission. What a heavy burden for such a young pair of shoulders. He pulled out a map and found their location.
“Let’s take a look at where we are. How much do you kids know about U.S. geography?” Gus asked.
Masozi, as always, had a quick answer. “We are between St. Louis Arch and New York City United Nations.”
“Well, that’s sort of right. Let’s pin it down a little bit. This train is headed to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, to get some
work done on this engine. This is a repair train that occasionally hauls a little freight for the railroad industry. We’re not on a schedule and our orders can change any minute. We just went through Columbus, Ohio. But we should be in the Harrisburg area late this evening, probably close to midnight. I could sure help you see a doctor without a problem.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gus. Please let us wait and see. This cough is very temporary. I will be fine,” Daudi insisted.
“Listen to Mr. Gus, Daudi. What would Mamere say? You know she would say, ‘Go to the doctor now. It is better to know all is well than to be carefree.’”
“You mean, careless,” Daudi corrected.
“Yes, you are being carefree and careless. Let us have a doctor study you and say all is well. It is a good idea.”
“And if the doctor wishes to look at you, Masozi?” Daudi challenged.
“I am all fixed now. Mister Gus carved me a leopard leg. I am faster than a cheetah, stronger than a leopard,” Masozi bragged.
Daudi exploded into another coughing fit that left him exhausted. “Alright. Perhaps I will do as you ask, if we can do it safely,” Daudi said. He sat on the bunk, glumly flipping through the book he loved so. After a time he found a place in it and began to read in a weak, but determined voice.
”It is such an uncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool,” said the Scarecrow.
“Well,” said the girl, “let us go.” And she handed the basket to the Scarecrow.
There were no fences at all by the roadside now, and the land was rough and untilled. Towards evening they came to a great forest, where the trees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the road of yellow brick. It was almost dark under the trees, for the branches shut out the daylight; but the travelers did not stop, and went on into the forest.
“If this road goes in, it must come out,” said the Scarecrow, “and as the Emerald City is at the other end of the road, we must go wherever it leads us.”