Shooting Butterflies

by T. M. Clark

  He moved slightly in his sleep, grunted, and plunged into his dark recurring nightmare. The one that he had stopped having for a while, but had lately returned. The one he avoided sleep to escape from.

  The bald-headed vultures circled, riding the hot air currents, gathering like dark clouds above the mission station. Soaring on the wind, they eyed something way below them, waiting for the opportune moment to drop from the sky and devour whatever carrion they could. Human or animal, they didn’t care, meat was meat and death meant a meal.

  It was their way of life.

  They glided lower, then rose in height again, as if they knew that although there was food they were as yet unable to gather it.

  Buffel peered upwards at them through the thick green bush, knowing he was almost as invisible as his horse, Benga, who was decorated in the same green and brown foliage that surrounded them, even though his black fur already provided natural camouflage in the dense bush. ‘Scavengers. Never a good sign,’ he whispered.

  Slowly he edged his horse forward, trying to glimpse the mission they knew had come under attack as recently as two hours before. The team was uncertain if they would be able to approach, if it had been abandoned or if there were still survivors they could rescue. A weight sat in his stomach, a dread.

  Death had visited, that he knew.

  ‘Check for trip wires,’ Corporal Mike Mitchells instructed.

  Together they dismounted and signalled for the four men with them to do the same.

  Buffel handed Mike his reins. ‘I’ll go.’

  He edged out from their position, methodically checking the ground for signs of landmines, or trip wires that would set off concealed claymores tied to trees. Those built to maim, with explosives that drove fragments of metal with maximum impact ripping through human flesh.

  He held his breath, expecting the explosion that could end his life at any moment. He studied the leaves on the trees to see if anything had been tampered with, and his eyes darted to the ground beneath. Nothing appeared out of place. His trained eyes returned to the trees, his trained eyes searching deeper into the shadows to check if anything looked suspicious.

  Nothing. It looked just as the African bush should.

  Slowly, he walked the final fifteen metres to the clearing around the mission. Ahead of him was the mission’s eight-foot security fence. Without the modern wire fence, the property could have been the mission he had grown up on. The architecture of the whitewashed building might be different, but it looked similar in that it invited those inside to find peace within its walls. The unit of six Grey Scouts had already navigated through the orchard and fields where food was grown to feed the hungry that came to worship here, and the familiarity squeezed his heart.

  A different time. A different mission.

  It had been many years since he’d thought of the mission where he’d grown up. He’d been happy to leave there when he was just sixteen to forge his own way in life. Away from the tyrannical rule of any God.

  He needed to concentrate on his surroundings. He needed his wits about him to stay alive. His whole focus. Once more, he looked at the ground for any signs of traps or anti-personnel mines laid there.

  It looked clear.

  He dropped to his stomach and used his binoculars to search the buildings.

  Once whitewashed and proud, the Dutch gabled building was scarred black from mortar fire, and red brick showed through where the building had taken a direct hit, crumbling under the modern explosives. The old mission walls had fallen in, despite being made of solid local grey stone and double bricked. The cross that had once stood proudly lay face down on the ground in pieces. It now looked more like a peace sign than something you would crucify someone on.

  ‘Two friendlies deceased on the mission steps,’ he relayed the information to Mike behind him. ‘Two more against the wall of the church to the right.’ He could see the splatter of red against the whiteness, and he knew they had been executed.

  He’d seen this exact scene before. Almost duplicated.

  This was the second mission to be attacked in a month. But it never stopped hurting his heart to see the death, the destruction. The barbaric cruelty.

  ‘I doubt we have any survivors here.’

  Mike nodded and handed him back his reins as he remounted, and signalled into the bush for the other scouts to join them.

  They rode in silence into the mission, gathered together in a defensive knot, weapons aimed in all directions. The horses packed tightly together, noses flared as if they knew the danger they were heading into.

  A lone white goat with a brown head and long ears bayed as it ran out past them, its tail clamped between its legs.

  They let it run.

  ‘Something’s still here to spook that goat,’ Zack said.

  ‘You bet,’ Mike replied, ‘let’s flush them out. We don’t ride these demon horses for nothing.’

  Henny sniggered.

  ‘Its not a joke, Henny,’ Mike said, ‘the reputation of our horses being able to run through fire and enter any building is legendary, and one day fear of these horses will be the only thing that stands between you and certain death. The superstitious tales of our horses with glowing red eyes will save you from that death as some ter craps in his broekies when he sees them. Don’t underestimate the black mind that believes in magic.’

  ‘I know, Corporal, but to me, it’s still silly that they believe in demons—’

  ‘You are young. You’ll learn there is more to life than what you know at nineteen. Now you and Zack stay here,’ Mike instructed the two youngest of the group. ‘If anything happens to us, get the hell out of here, and keep riding until you get back to the trucks. Don’t look back!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the two youngsters said.

  Buffel shook his head. ‘Ah, to be young and indestructible—’

  ‘Problem is, they haven’t leant yet that bullets don’t bounce off you, they hurt. Let’s try keep it that way!’ Mike said, then he clicked his tongue, and the four older men’s horses broke into a canter together. They thundered down on the building before splitting up. Mike took point, riding up the steps of the church and in through the once humble doors now hanging on their hinges.

  Buffel took the left flank to circle around the outside of the back of the church and funnel anything there towards the church. Nick rode hard to the right and behind the missionaries’ houses, while Enoch rode further right to come around the back of the school rooms.

  Buffel could hear Benga’s laboured breathing as she jumped nimbly over another body. He didn’t need to stop to check for life signs. Anyone with eyes could see half the piccaninny’s head was blown off. There was no way he was alive.

  He continued his search. He entered the back of the chuch building through an archway in the rear side. He rode towards the back of the altar.

  He stopped Benga and stared at the sight in front of him.

  There were twenty-five children, ranging in age from about three to fifteen. Every one had been executed by a single shot to the head, then laid out next to each other. He stared at them as he dismounted.

  A blinding rage tore at his heart.

  The orphans.

  They had killed the orphans.

  Innocent children, who had no one but the priest and nuns to care for them, had been executed.

  Slowly he checked each one was dead, then he joined their hands together, so that they were no longer alone in death.

  His mind thought back to when he was just ten years old and how the children who died had been laid out next to each other. Each body had been so small, including Impendla’s. Someone had joined their hands.

  He racked his memory to remember who.

  But he couldn’t remember. It was a dark time. A time when his father said Satan was winning and he needed to believe more in God to banish the devil from their mission, their home.

  Buffel shook his head, trying to dislodge the sudden memory.

  He didn’
t normally remember anything about that day, other than Impendla being dead. His mind had blanked it out. His father had said God’s angels had touched his head and helped him to forget so that he could live a normal, healthy life in the service of God.

  The mission worker had said Mwari had spared him, but now he owed Mwari.

  He didn’t believe either.

  Looking at the massacre of the children, he knew that as an adult, he still didn’t.

  Having grown up under the strict rod of the Christian God with the influence of the Shona peoples’ gods and superstitions, he thought perhaps he was closer to agnostic. He did believe in souls and an afterlife. He believed in something, just not what was being preached at that time.

  He remounted and looked around. Mike was still sweeping for terrorists, pew by pew from the back towards the front. He saw a second door behind the altar was closed and tapped Benga’s flank, giving her permission to open it. With a splintering whack, her iron-clad hooves shattered the bolt, as she smacked it in quick succession with first her right, then left front hoof.

  They entered the room.

  Nothing.

  It was empty, a storeroom or something, with no place for anyone to be hiding from them.

  They backed out together and headed for another closed door to the right.

  Only this time, as they approached, the door opened and a gook ran out, shooting wildly at them with an AK-47.

  Benga stayed true.

  She knocked into the gook’s chest with her head, tossing him a few feet in the air. He landed on his backside, eyes wide. He rolled over onto his knees and attempted to crawl away. Benga didn’t waver when her iron-hooves bit into the flesh of his back as she trampled him underneath. The immediate danger disabled, she pranced to the side to allow Buffel to complete his task. He jumped off, kicked the AK-47 away and knelt on the enemy’s back, binding his wrists quickly and firmly with rope.

  He could feel the man beneath his knee breathe and knew he still lived. At least they had one for information.

  Benga’s nostrils flared.

  Danger.

  He’d been with her long enough to trust her reactions in any combat situation. Alert, he looked around. Mike was now standing near the dead children. He looked further, through the doors of the front of the church, just as the clearly marked mission Land Rover drove past.

  Leaving the captured gook secured, he remounted Benga and ran towards the door, past Mike, who was mounting up.

  Once out of the church Benga jumped down the stairs, her body supple beneath his, her hooves gripping true as they bit into the rough concrete. Buffel watched as the vehicle headed directly for Zack and Henny. Now he had a better view he could confirm that the man at the wheel was no missionary. It was clearly another gook, spraying bullets liberally towards the young ones. Instead of running, Zack and Henny were keeping their horses under control and aiming at the driver. Henny was shooting at him. Buffel saw a shot hit the seat behind the driver as Henny reloaded and tried again. Taking careful aim. Zack had frozen.

  He dug his heels into Benga’s side and raced towards his fellow scouts.

  Slowly he adjusted himself to lie over Benga’s neck, putting his barrel between her ears, and at her next stride he lined up the hairs on his scope on the man driving the Land Rover. He knew if he missed he could shoot one of the youngsters, or their horses, but if he didn’t, the gunman would mow down the two youngest members of their unit.

  He and Mike would never forgive themselves. So far, they had lost no one from their platoon. And he didn’t want to start today … He blacked out the noise of the wind.

  Henny took another shot, the sound loud breaking Buffel’s concentration.

  The vehicle veered left, and slammed into a blue gum tree, the horn blowing loudly as the driver slumped against the steering wheel.

  Zack and Henny were still mounted. They had kept their post. They hadn’t run as instructed by Mike. Zack’s gun was still at his shoulder.

  ‘You okay?’ Buffel called, as he looked at the young boys. Henny nodded. He patted his horse and drew the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, automatically adjusting his weight in the saddle to compensate for the shift in his posture.

  ‘Am now,’ Zack replied as he too slowly lowered his FN and flicked his safety back on, but his face said otherwise. He wore the stark expression of terror.

  He was pretty sure Zack had lied about his age to join the scouts, but he was a good rider. His rapport with the horses was already legendary, and he had come into the Grey Scouts knowing how to track, and how to shoot. A farm kid used to the bush, animals, and weapons. All he needed was experience behind him and the kid would be one of the finest scouts in the whole battalion. He didn’t drink, didn’t appear to flirt with the girls, and was well liked. A sergeant major in the makings … if Buffel and Mike could keep him alive long enough.

  ‘Just take deep breaths. The fear will subside,’ he said quickly, ‘Settle your horse, she’s prancing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Zack said as he patted his horse reassuringly. ‘I couldn’t shoot him.’

  ‘Because he was moving?’

  ‘No,’ said Zack, ‘because I knew him. He used to be one of the tobacco shed packers on our farm up in Mashonaland. I couldn’t kill him. And he just kept coming.’

  ‘It’s shoot to kill or be killed. You were lucky Henny had your back today. Better yet, do as you were instructed and run next time!

  ‘Yeah right, and be labelled a chicken?’ Zack said.

  ‘Better a live chicken than a dead one,’ Buffel said. ‘Henny, you did good. Zack, we are going to need more practice once we get back to base.’

  ‘I second that,’ Mike said from behind him.

  But as he turned Benga towards Mike, he heard two shots, each shot followed by a sickening fleshy thunk. And then another two.

  Time stood still.

  He whirled Benga around to the youngsters. Henny was lying on the ground. His face had been blown away. Zack clutched at his chest, slowly slumping forward to topple off his horse. Buffel threw himself to the ground, just as a bullet whizzed closely past him. He could hear its hollow sound.

  ‘Down!’ he instructed Benga. She immediately listened and collapsed her legs, lying flat next to him, her head against the ground. The whites of her eyes were large, showing her fear, but she knew to trust her master. Mike and his horse were already on the ground, but they were unharmed.

  Buffel drew his trusty FN into position and crawled on his stomach closer to his horse. All the while he searched the bush for where the shots had come from. Another flash from a barrel as the gook took a shot at him and Mike, giving away his position, and Buffel and Mike opened fire together with automatic setting, mowing anything in the vicinity down.

  Buffel heard his bullets hit true, but crawled closer to check the gook was dead.

  He was.

  Buffel pumped the rest of the clip of bullets into him just in case.

  Then he turned and looked at the boys lying on the hard ground.

  He’d lost them. Two boys down.

  They had trusted him.

  Just like Impendla all those years ago.

  Now they were dead.

  Rage bubbled up like lava inside him, while an inhuman noise came out of his mouth.

  He took his rope from behind his saddle, and tied the gook’s feet together. Then he hung him upside-down from a branch in the tree just inside the security fence of the mission. He stripped his clothes off, then he carved the dead man’s already bleeding body with the same cuts that the Karoi had made to the children’s bodies, so many years ago.

  It was as if Impendla and his Mwari were now in charge of his actions. As if Nyamhika Nehanda herself guided his moves. Once that first gook was strung up in the tree, he fetched the other one from the Land Rover. He searched in the back and found more rope. Then he hoisted him up on his shoulder and easily carried him to the tree. Performing the same ritual, he made sure he bound the
gook’s rifle to his side, just as the Karoi had done with Impendla so many years before.

  This area was cursed.

  No one must ever come here again. The mission was never to be resettled.

  He went in search of more bodies.

  ‘Buffel, snap out if it! Now! That’s an order!’ A voice commanded from a distance, but then he felt someone slapped him hard across the face. His cheek stung. Not so much of a distance …

  Buffel’s eyes took a moment to focus on the camo-clad assailant in front of him. Then he charged like a bull out of a chute with cows in the paddock, right at his assailant.

  But the assailant was smaller, quicker than him as he stepped aside, and Buffel passed by. The assailant quickly disarmed him of his bush knife with one clean sweep against his body. Shaking his head at the loss, Buffel turned back for another pass at his assailant, but he heard the distinctive sound of a rifle being loaded.

  ‘Don’t take another step, soldier!’

  Buffel stepped forward slowly.

  The assailant shot at the ground just in front of Buffel’s feet. Sand scattered up his shins and over his shoes, and then Buffel felt a sensation wash over him as if a million Matabele ants had climbed over his skin. Buffel looked at his attacker.

  ‘Fuck Mike, why are you shooting at me?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t know? Look around you. Look in the tree!’ Mike demanded.

  Buffel looked around.

  Buffel saw the six bodies hung like cocoons in a jungle, and he saw the fresh blood as it congealed on the black bodies hanging in the tree. Each dangled by their feet by rope, with their weapons tied at their sides.

  Six dead bodies.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Buffel said. ‘When did a sangoma visit here?’

  Mike was staring at him. ‘No fucking sangoma. This was you!’

  Buffel sank to his knees. The memories flooded back into his conscious brain.

  The smell.

  The tree.

  The Karoi killing his dog.

  Him dropping his father’s rifle.

  Impendla swinging by his feet in the tree like a cocoon, suspended between death and the other side.

  Death. Impendla was dead.