by Wilbur Smith
‘I wish to know the movements of men and animals throughout Masailand and down the full length of the Rift Valley, even in the land beyond the great mountains of Kilimanjaro and Meru. I want this information gathered and sent to me as swiftly as possible.’
The village elders listened to his request, then discussed it animatedly among themselves, everyone coming up with a different opinion. Leon’s grasp of the Maa language was not yet strong enough to follow the rapid fire of argument and counter-assertion. In a whisper Manyoro translated for him: ‘There are many men in Masailand. Do you want to know about every single one of them?’ the old men asked.
‘I don’t need to know about your people, the Masai. I want to know only about the strangers, the white men and especially the Bula Matari.’ They were the Germans. The name meant ‘breakers of rock’, for the earliest German settlers had been geologists who chipped away at the surface mineral formations with their hammers. ‘I want to know about the movements of the Bula Matari and their askari soldiers. I want to know where they build walls or dig ditches in which they place their bunduki mkuba, their great guns.’
The discussion went on late into the night with little decided. Finally the self-appointed spokesman of the group, a toothless ancient, closed the council with the fateful words, ‘We will think on all these things.’ They rose and filed away to their huts.
When they were gone a small voice piped out of the darkness at Leon’s back, ‘They will talk and then they will talk some more. All you will hear from them is the sound of their voices. It would be better to listen to the wind in the treetops.’
‘That is great disrespect to your elders, Loikot,’ Manyoro scolded him.
‘I am a morani, and I choose carefully those to whom I give my respect.’
Leon understood that and laughed. ‘Come out of the darkness, my fine warrior friend, and let us see your brave face.’ Loikot came into the firelight and took his seat between Leon and Manyoro.
‘Loikot, when we travelled together to the railway line you showed me the tracks of a big elephant.’
‘I remember,’ Loikot answered.
‘Have you seen that elephant since then?’
‘When the moon was full I saw him as he browsed among the trees close to where I was camped with my brothers.’
‘Where was that?’
‘We were herding the cattle near the smoking mountain of the gods, three full days’ journey from here.’
‘It has rained heavily since then,’ Manyoro said. ‘The tracks will have been washed away. Besides, many days have passed since the moon was full. By now that bull might be as far south as Lake Manyara.’
‘Where should we begin the hunt if not at the place where Loikot last saw him?’ Leon wondered.
‘We should do as Lusima counsels. We should follow the wind,’ said Manyoro.
The next morning, as they descended the pathway down the mountain, the breeze came from the west. It blew soft and warm down the Rift Valley wall and across the Masai savannah. High clouds sailed above, like a flotilla of great galleons with sails of shimmering white. When the party reached the valley floor they turned and went with the wind, moving swiftly through the open forest at a steady jog-trot. Manyoro and Loikot were in the van, picking over the myriad game tracks that dotted the earth, pausing to point out to Leon those that warranted special attention, then moving on again. Slowly Ishmael fell back under his enormous burden until he was far behind.
With the wind at their backs their scent was carried ahead and the grazing game herds threw up their heads as they caught the taint of man and stared at them. Then they opened their ranks and let the men pass at a safe distance.
Three times during the morning they cut the spoor of elephant. The wounds the beast had left on the trees where they had torn down large branches were white and weeping sap. Clouds of butterflies hung over massive mounds of fresh dung. The two trackers wasted little time on this sign. ‘Two very young bulls,’ Manyoro said. ‘Of no account.’
They went on until Loikot picked out another sign. ‘One very old cow,’ he opined. ‘So old that the pads of her feet are worn smooth.’
An hour later Manyoro pointed to fresh spoor. ‘Here passed five breeding cows. Three have their unweaned calves at heel.’
Just before the sun reached its meridian Loikot, who was in the lead, stopped suddenly and pointed out a mountainous grey shape in a patch of sweet thorn forest far ahead. There was movement and Leon recognized the lazy flap of huge ears. His heartbeat quickened as they turned aside and worked their way out to get below the wind before they moved closer. They could tell by its bulk that it was a very large bull. He was feeding on a low bush and his back was turned to them so that they were unable to see his tusks. The wind held fair, and they came up softly behind him, closing in until Leon could count the wiry hairs in his worn tail and see the colonies of red ticks that hung like bunches of ripe grapes around his puckered anus. Manyoro signalled Leon to be ready. He slipped the big double rifle off his shoulder and held it with his thumb on the safety catch as they waited for the bull to move and allow them a sight of his tusks.
This was the closest Leon had ever been to an elephant, and he was awed by its sheer size. It seemed to blot out half the sky, as though he was standing beneath a cliff of grey rock. Suddenly the bull swung around and flared his ears wide. He stared directly at Leon from a distance of a dozen paces. Dense lashes surrounded small rheumy eyes and tears had left dark runnels down his cheeks. He was so close that Leon could see the light reflected in the irises as though they were two large beads of polished amber. Slowly he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, but Manyoro squeezed his shoulder, urging him to hold his fire.
One of the bull’s tusks was broken off at the lip while the other was chipped and worn down to a blunt stump. Leon realized that Percy Phillips would cover him with scorn if he brought them back to Tandala Camp. Yet the bull seemed poised to charge and he might be forced to fire. Night after night over the past weeks, Percy had sat with him in the lamplight and lectured him on the skills required to kill one of these gigantic animals with a single bullet. They had pored together over his autobiography, which he had titled Monsoon Clouds Over Africa. He had devoted an entire chapter to shot placement, and illustrated it with his own lifelike sketches of African game animals.
‘The elephant is a particularly difficult animal to tackle. Remember that the brain is a tiny target. You have to know exactly where it is from any angle. If he turns or lifts his head your aiming point changes. If he is facing you, broadside or angled away from you, the picture changes again. You must look beyond the grey curtain of his hide and see the vital organs hidden deep inside his massive head and body.’
Now Leon realized, with dismay, that it was not an illustration in a book that confronted him: it was a creature that could squash him to jelly and crush every bone in his body with a single blow of its trunk, and it would take only two long strides to reach him. If the bull came at him he would be forced to try to kill it. Percy’s voice echoed in his head: ‘If he is head on to you, take the line between his eyes and move down until you pick the top crease in his trunk. If he lifts his head or if he is very close you must go even lower. The mistake that gets the novice killed is that he shoots too high, and his bullet goes over the top of the brain.’
Leon stared hard at the base of the trunk. The lateral creases in the thick grey skin between the amber eyes were deeply etched. But he could not visualize what lay beyond. Was the bull too close? Must he shoot at the second or third crease rather than the first? He was uncertain.
Suddenly the bull shook his head so violently that his ears clapped thunderously against his shoulders, and raised a cloud of dust from the dry mud that coated his body. Leon swung the rifle to his shoulder, but the beast wheeled away and disappeared at a shambling run among the sweet thorn trees.
Leon’s legs felt weak and his hands holding the rifle were trembling. Understanding of his own inadequacy ha
d been thrust rudely upon him. He knew now why Percy had sent him out to be blooded. This was not a skill that could be learned from a book or even from hours of instruction. This was trial by the gun and failure was death. Manyoro came back to him and offered him one of the waterbottles. Only then did he realize that his mouth and throat were parched, and his tongue felt swollen with thirst. He had gulped down three mouthfuls before he noticed that the two Masai were studying his face. He lowered the water-bottle and smiled unconvincingly.
‘Even the bravest of men is afraid the first time,’ Manyoro said. ‘But you did not run.’
They halted in the blazing noon and found shade under the spreading branches of a giraffe thorn tree while they waited for Ishmael to catch up and prepare the midday meal. He was still half a mile away across the plain and his form wavered in the heat mirage. Loikot squatted in front of Leon and frowned, which signalled that he had something of importance to impart and that this was a conversation between men.
‘M’bogo, this is verily the truth that I will tell you,’ he began.
‘I am listening to you, Loikot. Speak and I will hear you,’ Leon assured him, and assumed an earnest expression to encourage him.
‘It is of no value to talk to those old men as you did two nights ago. Their minds are cooked to cassava porridge by the drinking of beer. They have forgotten how to track a beast. They hear nothing but the chatter of their wives. They see nothing beyond the walls of their manyatta. They can do nothing but count their cattle and fill their bellies.’
‘Such is the way of old men.’ Leon was acutely aware that, in Loikot’s eyes, he himself was probably on the brink of dotage.
‘If you want to know what is happening in all the world you must ask us.’
‘Tell me, Loikot, who do you mean by “us”?’
‘We are the guardians of the cattle, the chungaji. While the old men sit in the sun to drink beer and talk of mighty deeds from long ago, we the chungaji move through the land with the cattle. We see everything. We hear everything.’
‘But tell me, Loikot, how do you know what the other chungaji, who are many days’ march distant, see and hear?’
‘They are my brothers of the knife. Many of us are of the same circumcision year. We shared the initiation ceremonies.’
‘Is it possible that you are able to learn what the chungaji with their cattle on the plains beyond Kilimanjaro saw yesterday? They are ten days’ march away.’
‘It is possible,’ Loikot confirmed. ‘We speak to each other.’
Leon doubted this.
‘At sunset this evening I will speak to my brothers and you will hear it,’ Loikot offered, but before Leon could question him further they heard terrified screaming from out on the plain. Leon and Manyoro seized their rifles and jumped up. They stared out at Ishmael’s distant figure. He was in full flight towards them, holding his bundle on his head with both hands. Close behind him came a gigantic cock ostrich. With its long pink legs it was gaining on him swiftly. Even from this distance Leon could see that it displayed its full breeding plumage. Its body was the deepest onyx black and the puffs of feathers on its tail and wing-tips were brilliant white. Now every feather was fluffed up in rage. Its legs and beak were flushed scarlet with sexual frenzy. It was determined to kill to protect its breeding territory from the white-robed invader.
Leon led the two Masai to the rescue. They shouted and waved their arms wildly to distract the bird, but it ignored them and bore down remorselessly on Ishmael. When it got within striking distance it stretched out its long neck and pecked the kitchen bundle so viciously that he was knocked off his feet. He went down, sprawling in a cloud of dust. His bundle burst open and his cooking pots and crockery clattered and bounced around him. The ostrich leaped on top of him, kicking and clawing with both feet. It lowered its head to peck his arms and legs, and Ishmael squealed as the blood flowed from the wounds it inflicted.
Nimble as a hare, Loikot outran the two older men, shouting a challenge at the ostrich as he closed in. The bird jumped off Ishmael’s prostrate form and advanced menacingly towards Loikot. Its stubby wings were spread and it began its threat dance, stepping high, lifting and lowering its head menacingly, cawing an angry challenge.
Loikot pulled up and spread the tails of his cloak as though they were wings. Then he began a perfect imitation of the ostrich’s dance, using the same high steps and ritual head-bobbing. He was trying to provoke it to attack. Bird and boy circled each other.
The ostrich was being confronted on its own breeding ground and his outrage and affront at last overpowered even its instinct of survival. It rushed to the attack, head thrust out to the full reach of its long neck. It struck at Loikot’s face, but Loikot knew exactly how to deal with it, and Leon realized he must have done this many times before. Fearlessly the boy jumped to meet the huge bird and locked both hands around its neck just behind the head. Then he lifted both feet off the ground and swung his full weight on the ostrich’s neck, bearing its head down to the ground. The ostrich was pinned helplessly off-balance. It could not lift its head. It flopped around in a circle in an attempt to remain on its feet. Leon ran up and raised his rifle. He circled the mêlée to give himself a clear shot.
‘No! Effendi, no! Do not shoot,’ screamed Ishmael. ‘Leave this son of the great shaitan to me.’ On his hands and knees he was fumbling through the scattered debris of his kitchen utensils. At last he came to his feet clutching a gleaming carving knife in his right hand and raced to the struggling pair with his weapon held en garde.
‘Twist its head over!’ he shouted at Loikot. Now the bird’s throat was exposed and, with the skill of a master butcher, Ishmael drew the edge of the razor-sharp blade across it, slitting it neatly from side to side and cutting down to the ostrich’s vertebrae with a single stroke.
‘Let him go!’ Ishmael ordered, and Loikot released the bird. They jumped well clear of its flailing feet with their sharp talons. The ostrich bounded away but a long plume of blood shot high in the air from the open arteries in its throat. It lost direction and staggered in a circle, its long, scaly pink legs losing their driving force and its neck drooping like the stalk of a fading flower. It collapsed and lay struggling weakly to regain its feet, but regular jets of bright arterial blood continued to spurt on to the sun-baked earth.
‘Allah is great!’ Ishmael exulted, and pounced upon its still living carcass. ‘There is no other God but God!’ Neatly he slit open the bird’s belly and cut out the liver. ‘This creature is slain by my knife and I have sanctified its death in the name of God. I have drawn out its blood. I declare this meat halal.’ He held the liver aloft. ‘Behold the finest meat in all of creation. The liver of the ostrich taken from the living bird.’
They ate kebabs of ostrich liver and belly fat grilled over the coals of the camel-thorn acacia. Then, bellies filled, they slept for an hour in the shade. When they awoke the breeze, which had died away at noon, rose again and blew steadily across the wide steppe. They shouldered rifles and packs and went with the wind until the sun was no more than a hand’s spread above the horizon.
‘We must go to that hilltop,’ Loikot told Leon, pointing to a pimple of volcanic rock that stood out directly in their path, highlighted in the ruddy glow of the setting sun. The boy scrambled ahead to the summit and stared down the valley. Shaded blue with distance three enormous bastions of rock thrust up towards the southern sky. ‘Loolmassin, the mountain of the gods.’ Loikot pointed out the most westerly peak as Leon came up beside him. Then he turned to the east and the two larger peaks. ‘Meru and Kilimanjaro, the home of the clouds. Those mountains are in the land that the Bula Matari call their own but which has belonged to my people since the beginning time.’ The peaks were more than a hundred miles on the far side of the border, deep inside German East Africa.
Awed into silence, Leon watched the sunlight sparkle on the snowfields of Kilimanjaro’s rounded summit, then turned back to the long trail of smoke drifting from the volcan
ic crater of Loolmassin. He wondered if there was a more magnificent spectacle in all the world.
‘Now I will speak to my brothers of the chungaji. Hear me!’ Loikot announced. He filled his lungs, cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a high-pitched sing-song wail, startling Leon. The volume and pitch were so penetrating that, instinctively, he covered his ears. Three times Loikot called, then sat down beside Leon and wrapped his shuka around his shoulders. ‘There is a manyatta beyond the river.’ He pointed out the darker line of trees that marked the riverbed.
Leon calculated that it was several miles away. ‘Will they hear you at such a distance?’
‘You will see,’ Loikot told him. ‘The wind has dropped and the air is still and cool. When I call with my special voice it will carry that far and even further.’ They waited. Below them, a small herd of kudu moved through the thorn scrub. Three graceful grey cows led the bull, with his fringed dewlap and spreading corkscrew horns. Their shapes were ethereal as drifts of smoke as they vanished silently into the scrub.
‘Do you still think they heard you?’ Leon asked.
The boy did not deign to answer immediately, but chewed for a while on the root of the tinga bush that the Masai used to whiten their teeth. Then he spat out the wad of pith and gave Leon a flash of his sparkling smile. ‘They have heard me,’ he said, ‘but they are climbing to a high place from which to reply.’ They lapsed into silence again.
At the foot of the hillock Ishmael had lit a small fire and was brewing tea in a small smoke-blackened kettle. Leon watched him thirstily.
‘Listen!’ said Loikot, and threw back his cloak as he sprang to his feet.
Leon heard it then, coming from the direction of the river. It sounded like a faint echo of Loikot’s original call. Loikot cocked his head to follow it, then cupped his hands and sent his high, sing-song cry ringing back across the plain. He listened again to the reply, and the exchange went on until it was almost dark.