Chanda's Wars

by Allan Stratton

  “You always find her?”

  “Sooner or later. She’ll be chewing her cud, looking up at me with her big, stupid eyes as if to say, ‘Oh, hello. What took you so long?’ Sort of like you this afternoon.”

  “Ha ha. So how far out do you think the maze goes?”

  “About where you got to, I’m guessing.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Mandiki’d want to pitch camp by dawn. He wouldn’t have had much time. Certainly not enough to mess around in a patch of thornbushes in the dark.”

  “So, then…we make a big arc beyond those bushes?”

  “We would, if I didn’t already know where the paths end up.” He points to a massive boulder breaking the wall of bushes. “The rebels went through there.”

  “How do you know?”

  Nelson’s throat catches. “Mandiki’s got Pako as his guide. Except for the flatbed, this is Pako’s route when he runs away.”

  “Then why did you waste time telling me about cows?”

  Nelson pauses. “We probably won’t survive this. You know that, don’t you?”

  A chill goes up my spine. “I try not to think about it.”

  “Well, think about it. “He squeezes my hand. “You shouldn’t be here. You really shouldn’t. But you are, and I can’t stop you. What I can do, is teach you my bush tricks, so you can carry on when they kill me.”

  “If.”

  “When.” He pauses. “Do you understand?”

  I nod. But inside, it’s like the earth’s giving way. I’m falling. Before I crash, I grab hold of my knapsack. “Right. Let’s go.”

  32

  “SO WHERE’S PAKO taking the rebels?” I ask as we go around the boulder, through the wall of bushes.

  “A waterhole straight north of here. It’s pretty much his private place. Least, I’ve never seen anyone else there.”

  “How far?”

  “Maybe three hours,” he shrugs. “Three and a half.”

  We don’t say much at first, then Nelson starts going on about Pako’s hideaway. I’m not sure if it’s for my benefit, or to keep himself from being bored.

  “Pako’s waterhole’s a good size,” he says. “It must’ve been made twenty, thirty years ago, before the elephants and hippos got hunted out. Back then, it would’ve been just a small depression on some flatland. But by the time the animals disappeared, they’d rolled, stomped, and mucked about in it so much, they’d made it into this huge pond. Nice and deep. The water that collects in rainy season stays for months.”

  According to Nelson, there’s only a few active posts in the area. Over the last ten years, everyone else has passed away. Whole families. “A lot of pneumonia,” he says. But we both know what he means. “That’s why this place makes a great stopover for the rebels. They can stock up on water, and there’s nobody to report them.”

  I’m glad Nelson knows the way. Following the rebels’ path is getting hard. Since the stretch of rock, the grasses barely come to our knees. Without the thickness and height to weigh them down, they’ve been able to right themselves in the sun.

  Nelson doesn’t care. He shows me other signs of rebel movement. Here and there, blades broken mid-stalk: “Folks pick grass as they walk, without even thinking.” We come to a place full of flies and stink: “They shit, too,” he grins.

  The vegetation thins. I see spots where people have stepped outside the narrow path. The prints aren’t as clear as the ones I saw this morning. “When the sun dries the dirt, the edges of the spoor crumble,” Nelson explains. Something catches his eye. He squats. “See the wavy line across that one?”

  I nod. It’s the trail of a small snake.

  “Watch for anything crossing the spoor. Grass snakes like that one come out early, find a rock, and bake all day. What does that tell us?”

  “Well, that print was here before the snake, and the snake was here early morning. So that print was made by dawn.”

  Nelson nods and winks. It’s like being in class with Mr. Selalame. There’s so much I don’t know, but the way he acts when I get something right, I want to learn more.

  The sun begins to drop. Even with less light, the prints are suddenly easier to spot. Are my eyes adjusting to this new world? Am I turning into a tracker? I grab Nelson’s arm. “It’s like I have new eyes,” I say, all excited. “The spoor are lifting off the ground!”

  He laughs. “When the sun’s low, the rim around the track casts a shadow. Every mark—claw, hoof, or boot—looks underlined. That’s why tracking’s best just after dawn and before dusk.”

  My shoulders slump. “Oh.”

  “Cheer up. At least you’re not hallucinating.”

  There’s a haze on the horizon. “It’ll be dark soon,” I say. “How far to the mudhole?”

  “Under a mile. We’ll have time to make camp, wash up.”

  “What if the rebels are still there?”

  Nelson frowns. “Good question.”

  The waterhole is in the middle of a tract of land, maybe a quarter of a mile across, sunk into the landscape. It’s as if a giant has pressed a shallow baking pan into the earth; the mudhole is a biscuit at the center. We approach the edge of the high ground on our knees. Nelson holds up his hand for silence. He listens hard, scans the sky, and motions me to lie flat. We crawl up to the rim on our bellies and peer down the rugged slope to the land below.

  The animals that made the mudhole were pretty smart. The area around the water is flat as a pancake. Predators could be spotted with ease, or smelled, depending on the wind. In case of attack, there’s a sweep of thornbushes for escape. Back then, this would’ve been like the pictures Mr. Lesole has of mudholes in Mfuala Park: the nearby trees stunted, dead or dying, their leaves devoured, their bark ringed by elephant tusks; the vegetation by the water trampled to bare mud.

  Today, free of elephants, it’s a lush oasis. The circle of high ground we’re on has sent down enough runoff to create a woodland. I see acacia and baobab trees. Sedges and reeds line the mudhole’s banks; algae blooms green the surface. It’s become a place where people can hide, shielded from view by thick branches and broad-leafed undergrowth.

  Nelson scouts with his eyes. Me, I need the binoculars from Mr. Lesole.

  “See all the birds?” he says. “The egrets on that candelabra tree? The water-walkers off the far bank of the mudhole? Nobody’s squawking. Good sign. I’ll crawl down, get a better look. Keep your eyes peeled. If you spot anyone, back away. I’ll see that you’re not here, and retreat. If everything’s fine, I’ll wave an all-clear.”

  He slithers down the slope. I watch him zigzag from a termite mound to a sausage tree to an acacia. He’s amazing. Even though I know where he is, half the time I can’t see him. It’s as if he decides to be invisible.

  Now he’s beside a date palm. They’re mainly up in the park around the river. Way back, an animal must have wandered down with dates in its poop and dropped them here by the waterhole. My god, the park. Traveling north all day, we must be halfway there.

  I scan the high ground for rebels. Nothing. I look back for Nelson. Where did he go? I swear at my binoculars. With a cracked lens, it’s hard to focus.

  Oh, there he is. On the top of the date palm. He must be scanning the rebels’ spoor. There’s spoor everywhere. No surprise. The rebels arrived, made camp, and moved around before leaving. I see breaks in the sedges where they broke through to get water.

  I zoom in on his face and adjust the lenses. He looks up at me and grins. Can he tell I’m staring at him? He waves the all-clear.

  By the time I join him, Nelson’s sitting on a hollow tree that’s fallen near the mudhole. A candelabra tree grows through the heavy mulch at the far end.

  “They camped here last night,” he says, pointing at the ashen remains of a campfire. “But here’s the best news. We’ve almost caught up. They only left within the hour.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The earth has a thin, dry crust. When it’s disturbed, the damp underneath shows u
p darker. The tracks we saw today were made last night. The sun had dried them out. But look…” He points to the spoor in front of us. “Those tracks are darker than the ground around. The moisture hasn’t had time to evaporate.”

  “Which means…they’re new.”

  “Well done, O wise one.” I know he’s being sarcastic, but he’s smiling. I smile back.

  The shadow from the high ground rolls over the woodland. Puffs of tiny insects float into the dusky air. I get a mouthful, spit them out. “With the rebels so close, we should get a move-on.”

  Nelson shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know where to go. Pako never went much farther than this, and we can’t see tracks in the dark. We’d lose them easy.”

  I turn away in frustration.

  “Look, with the kids and the dark, the rebels are slower than us, remember? If we head out at first light, we’ll catch up by tomorrow night. That’s a promise.”

  We spread our blankets by the thornbushes, then Nelson washes up in the waterhole. When he comes back, I take my turn, and he makes supper. He’s the sort to sneak a peek, so I wait till I’m past the sedges to take off my clothes. On my way across the bank, I notice something odd. There are dozens of tracks in the mud, but all of them go into the water. How can that be? Didn’t the rebels come out?

  I smile with the answer: When they left, Mandiki made them walk backward. It’s a trick to confuse people about the direction you’re headed.

  I remember this from a game of hide-and-seek when I was little, before we moved to Bonang. My older cousins had entered a stream and retraced their steps backward. I saw footprints heading into the water and none leaving. I thought they’d drowned. After Mama calmed me down, she showed me how to tell the trick. “When people move forward,” she said, “they hit the ground with their heels; the heels press deeper. Going backward, they walk on their toes; the toes press deeper.” I tried it. It was true.

  Both kind of prints are at the mudhole. Heels-deeper, as the rebels marched forward into formation, then toes-deeper as they headed away. Follow the toe prints, we’ll have their route. Tomorrow morning, I’ll shock Nelson with what I know. I can’t wait to see his face.

  By the time I’ve cleaned up, Nelson’s laid out our meal: some biltong and biscuits from his food stash. The biltong’s tastier than the beef jerky we get in Bonang.

  “Papa loved extra coriander,” Nelson smiles. “Pepper, too.”

  The sun’s gone down behind the high ground. The sky’s a dusty gray. A few minutes later, a sheet of stars. All I see are the silhouettes of treetops, and a few silver streaks—the moon’s reflection peeking through the cracks in the reed curtain around the waterhole. I lie on my blanket, my knapsack under my head as a pillow. “Good night.”

  “’Night,” Nelson says back. There’s a pause, then he adds: “You should shake out that ‘kerchief’ of yours. Use it to keep the mosquitoes off.”

  I chuckle. “Too many holes. That netting’s only good to make me look like an idiot.”

  “You aren’t an idiot,” Nelson says quietly. “You don’t look like one either.”

  Does he mean it? I look over. How I wish I could see in the dark.

  33

  I WAKE UP in the middle of the night shivering, probably from all the sun I got midday.

  My old dream flashes through my mind: the road to Tiro; Soly and Iris taken away. Was it a warning? Is this my punishment for not listening? No, don’t think like that. Dreams can mean anything. Mrs. Tafa thought it meant I had to go to Tiro. If I’d stayed home and something bad had happened, would I have tortured myself for that instead?

  I wrap my blanket around me and stare at the moon. Soly. Iris. Where are you? What are you doing? Are you looking at the moon too?

  A faint moan rises from the direction of the hollowed log. I’m not the only one awake. I feel for my shoes, slip them on, and walk gingerly toward the sound. As I get close, it stops.

  “Nelson?”

  Silence.

  “Nelson, tell me it’s you.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Nelson, keep talking. Please. Guide me to where you are.”

  “Go back to your blanket. Go to sleep. Leave me alone.”

  My foot taps into the log. I reach down, touch it, edge along it, till I sense his presence. I sit. The skin on my arm tingles. I feel his heat beside me.

  We stay like that for a long time. Then out of the hush, Nelson’s voice, so delicate it’s like he’s talking to himself:

  “I remember the first time I tracked him here,” he says. “Pako’d been running away from home for years. Every few months, since he was four. When things got rough, he’d take off. Like me. He didn’t go far, at first. He’d just walk till he got lost, or tired, or scared. Then he’d sit and wait for someone to find him. It was always me, went after him. I’d get mad. He’d wasted my day. But one look at him all slumped over, I’d hug him and hug him. We’d talk a bit, then I’d carry him home. I’d tell him it would be okay, he wasn’t in trouble anymore. I’d pray I was right. I usually was.”

  Nelson gulps for air. I stare at the ground.

  “Pako always took the same route,” he says at last. “I figure it’s because deep down he wanted me to find him. Only each time he’d go farther. When he was five, he started taking food and water. ‘When I’m big,’ he’d say, ‘I’m going to walk around the world. I’m going to walk so far, I’ll disappear.’ Two years ago, I thought he had. He ran away early, when I was at the post. By the time I got back, it was too late to see anything. Next day, I tracked him for what seemed like forever. I ended up here. Poor Pako. He must’ve been so scared when I didn’t come that first day. Maybe he thought Mama and me, we didn’t love him anymore. Maybe he thought we didn’t care.”

  He chokes. Then his voice goes quiet as a baby’s breath: “I remember I followed his trail to this log. Pako was hiding inside. I pretended I didn’t know. I knelt on the ground. ‘Dear god, and all the ancestors,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for my little brother. His name is Pako. I miss him so much. But I don’t know where he is. Please help me find him.’ A few minutes later, he crawled out and snuggled next to me.”

  Silence. Nelson begins rocking slowly.

  “For the last two years, this is where Pako’d run,” he says. “It’s his special place. He’s made up stories about it: ‘This log belongs to the god of the mudhole. Anyone who goes inside it is safe. Even Papa’s spirit can’t get in.’ Sometimes Pako asked if he can stay by himself a day or two. I bring provisions, camp up on the high ground, stay hidden, so he’ll feel grown up.” Nelson throws back his head. “I’m a coward. A coward.”

  “That isn’t true!”

  “It is!”

  I hear him wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. I find his hand.

  “I never faced them,” he weeps. “I never stood up to Papa, Runako, Samson. On the post, when I was little, Mama hid me in the granary bin when they’d get drinking. Later, when we moved to town, I’d hide in your granny’s outhouse. They’d pound on your granny and grampa’s door. Your family pretended they hadn’t seen me. Your grampa and uncles would get them home.”

  “That doesn’t make you a coward. You were only a kid.”

  A roar rips from his throat. “I wasn’t a kid when Pako was growing up. Or my other little brothers. First sign of trouble, I’d be gone. Anything to make the shouting go away. In the morning, I’d see the bruises. ‘They fell,’ Mama’d say. ‘Yeah, Mama,’ I yelled, ‘well they fall a lot when Papa’s drinking.’ I never did anything though. Just yelled and left her with everything. I’m so ashamed! If I’d stood up to them, this would never have happened. Pako wouldn’t have run off. He wouldn’t have been captured. Mama would still be alive.”

  “You’re not to blame. Especially not for Mandiki.”

  “What do you know? Mama died to save Pako from the rebels. It should have been me who died.” He sinks to the ground.

  I kneel beside him, feel for his shoulders. He quive
rs into a ball. I hold him tight.

  “I swear to god,” he says, “I won’t let Mama down again. I’m going to find my brother. I’m going to bring him home, like I did when he ran away. I won’t be a coward. Not ever again. I’m going to be like you.”

  I rock him and rock him and rock him. His body goes limp. Asleep in my arms, he’s a little boy like Soly. My lips brush his forehead. I roll him gently onto his side, faced away from me, and press my back against his.

  I’m not sure if this is a good idea, sleeping next to each other. Mrs. Tafa would say I was looking for trouble. I don’t care. Nelson’s warmth feels good. I wish I could throw one of our blankets over us, but I’m afraid to crawl around in the pitch black trying to find them.

  Nelson shifts like crazy all night. Every so often, a shiver ripples across his shoulders or his legs twitch. It’s like he’s trying to run in his dreams. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t hear me.

  I don’t sleep. Nelson. What does he mean, he wants to be like me? I’m not brave. I’m scared to death. Are my babies alive? Last time I saw them, they hated me. Do they still hate me? Do they blame me? Please god, let them forgive me. For shaming them. For being away when they needed me most. Let Mama forgive me too.

  Oh, Mama, I want to get them back. But I don’t know if I can. I’m so afraid. I’m so…

  It’s first light. My back feels cold. Where’s Nelson? I roll over. He’s gone. I sit up in a panic. Then I see him near the mudhole with his knapsack, surveying the ground. I lie back down and pretend to sleep, half-closing my eyes so I can watch him without him knowing it. He heads into a thicket. Doing his morning business, I figure.

  Silence.

  I hear a bird, a few more. In minutes, there’s squawking all around. The world is waking up. I stretch. Nelson should be back by now. Oh well. I take care of my own affairs and wash up at the mudhole. Nelson still hasn’t come back.