Hare in the Elephant's Trunk

by Jan Coates

  As the sun beat down directly overhead, Jacob heard the drone of an engine approaching. He looked all around the desert—the edges of the earth were visible in all directions. Expecting to find a relief truck or supply plane approaching, he was surprised to see nothing but the curving tail of the centipede far behind him, and its head in front of him. Suddenly, the boys behind began scattering in all directions, like ants in the shadow of an aardvark.

  “Look!” Monyroor cried, pointing at a dark speck in the sky. He sprinted back to gather his group of boys together. Jacob looked up, holding his hand above his brow to block the sun’s harsh glare. Then he saw it; an airplane, circling high above them, like a giant hawk hovering above a field full of scurrying mice. It did not look like the small planes that had delivered food pallets to Pochalla. As he watched, the sun glinted off a silver casing in the Antonov’s white belly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jacob grabbed Willy’s hand. “Quick, Willy—come with me!”

  All around him, boys yelled, “Hit the dirt!”

  Jacob and Willy ignored the shouts, leaned low and sprinted away from the frenzied crowd. Jacob glanced back over his shoulder to see where the bomb would drop. They found a small dip in the sand and hunkered close together watching; watching and waiting. Some boys flung themselves to the ground, putting their hands on the backs of their heads as they’d been taught in Pinyudo. Jacob held his breath, scanned the panicking crowd for Monyroor, rubbed his Mama stone, and prayed.

  The first bomb struck close to the end of the line. The explosion sounded like a herd of stampeding elephants. The earth shattered, leaving a deep gorge with sharp, jagged edges. Willy clapped his hands over his ears. Bodies were tossed in the air like birds batted about by the wind. The Antonov roared off, leaving an eerie hush in its wake.

  “We’re here, Monyroor. Over here!” Jacob yelled, waving his arms in the air. The plane circled and came into view again. Just as the second bomb was released, Jacob saw his nephew leap to his feet, then start running toward them. “No, Monyroor, NOOOoo!” Jacob screamed.

  As they crouched, watching helplessly, Monyroor was flung high into the air, his arms and legs spread wide like a star. He plunged back to earth, landing heavily several feet away. He lay motionless.

  Jacob crawled over to Monyroor, grabbed his nephew’s arm, and tugged. Together, he and Willy managed to roll him down the small hill.

  They squatted and stared silently at the older boy. Jacob’s throat tightened as he tried not to cry.

  “Is he dead?” Willy asked after a few seconds, his forehead crinkled with fear, his brown eyes full of tears. Monyroor’s eyes were closed; his mouth hung open and his square jaw was crooked. Jacob remembered the faces of the boys he’d carried to Zone Eight in Pinyudo. When he tried to lift one of Monyroor’s arms, it was limp and heavy and thudded back to the ground. Jacob buried his face in his hands. Not Monyroor, too—he cannot be dead. He is too big and strong. It’s my fault—first Oscar, now Monyroor! Jacob pounded his fists into the sand, over and over. “Mama!” he screamed. “Mama, I need you!”

  And then Willy was there, tugging on Jacob’s wrist, catching it in midair. “He’s breathing—see his belly?” Jacob scrambled across the sand and pressed his ear to his nephew’s chest. Jacob’s eyes opened wide.

  “Yes!” he shouted. He smiled and turned to hug Willy. “You’re right, Willy—it’s moving up and down!” The two smaller boys crouched down on either side of Monyroor, their arms hugging their knees. Jacob finally allowed the tears to stream down his face. He was barely aware of the screaming and moaning and crying all around them. The three boys were in their own small world. After a few minutes, Monyroor began to stir; then he opened his eyes, turned his head to the side, and coughed.

  “What happened?” he asked, struggling to breathe, wheezing and rubbing his jaw.

  “You are bleeding, Monyroor,” Jacob said, helping him to sit up. Monyroor put his head between his knees, gagged several times, then emptied his stomach. Wiping away green strings of spit, he tried to breathe slowly. In and out, in and out. Jacob and Willy breathed with him.

  “Are you all right, Monyroor?” Willy put one thin arm around the bigger boy’s shoulders. “You flew like a hawk.”

  Monyroor managed a weak smile. “No wings, though ... I’ll be okay ... just catching my breath,” he said, coughing. “Took the wind out of me.” He winced and held his ribs as he tried to stand.

  “I wish I had water to give you.” Jacob folded his hands across one knee and rested his chin on them.

  They finally stood and walked slowly back toward the others. Monyroor put one arm around Willy’s shoulders, the other around Jacob’s, and limped along. The boys who had survived the bombing were sitting or lying on the ground, staring wordlessly at the huge craters the shells had left in the sand. Great clods of earth were scattered around the holes, like plops of elephant dung.

  Jacob looked around at the scattered bodies. His ears were ringing. He covered his eyes, rubbed his ears, and tried to think. After a few minutes, he said, “Monyroor, there is no Zone Eight. We can’t just leave all these boys here for the vultures. The grave has already been dug.”

  “You’re right,” Monyroor agreed. “We must bury them before the animals find them.” Several vultures were already circling the area, as if they had known to follow the plane.

  “Remember my brother?” Willy said. Jacob nodded. I was only a small boy then. How much I have learned ... If the northern soldiers are angry at the SPLA, then why are they attacking innocent boys? What did we do to them? Does killing us help them win the war?

  Other boys joined them in the task. Many had been injured by the blast and were scraped and bleeding; others sat in silent shock at the sudden loss of their walking partners. Someone began singing, a low, mournful song of loss. Soon they all joined in, singing as they worked at the adult job of burying their young brothers in the enormous grave. The familiar words gave Jacob strength as he worked.

  A son of man should not be left alone

  To struggle with people all alone

  Like a black bull of the buffalo ...

  If it is because my father is dead

  And I am blind to the fact,

  Then please let me know at once.

  Let me know the truth ...

  So that I stand and face the elephant

  To fight a lonely war with the elephant.

  He scooped up heavy handfuls of sand and clay and dumped them on the backs of the dead boys. There was no time to take care, no time to honor the lost lives. Leave us alone, Jacob thought, looking up at the sky, squinting his eyes and clenching his teeth as he worked. What is wrong with you—can’t you see we are just boys?

  When the job was finished and dusk began to settle around them, they rejoined the line and resumed walking. Jacob’s hand went automatically to his pocket. “Oh no!” he cried. “Mama’s stone—it’s gone!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monyroor and Willy turned to look at him.

  “Are you sure?” Willy asked. “Did you check both pockets?” Jacob pulled his pockets inside out. They were empty. The other boys checked their pockets, just in case.

  “We have to go back,” Willy said. “I can find it.”

  “There is no time,” Monyroor said. “The Antonov could return. We must get to Kenya.”

  “But I have to find it. I can’t leave without it.” Jacob’s voice trembled. He felt tears crawl up his throat, like a fuzzy armyworm, making it hard to breathe.

  “Not now, Jacob. We have to leave—now.” Monyroor turned and limped away.

  Jacob grabbed him by the arm. “Please, Monyroor. Please help us look for it. You don’t understand how important it is.”

  “Look at how much sand there is here.” Monyroor spun around and held his arms open wide. “It is a hopeless task, Little Uncle.”

  Jacob turned his head in all directions. It was already impossible to pick out the small gully where he
and Willy had crouched. “You are right, we would probably never find it; it is so small,” Jacob said hopelessly, his shoulders sinking. “And there is so much sand.”

  “We cannot stay here all day,” Monyroor said firmly. “You can find another pretty stone.”

  “No, you don’t understand!” Jacob’s eyes filled with unwanted tears again. “That stone tells Mama I still remember her! She thinks of me, too, when I hold it.” Jacob rubbed his eyes as he choked on his words. He was ashamed to cry in front of Monyroor, who was always so strong and brave.

  Monyroor stopped walking and put an arm around Jacob’s shoulders. “Little Uncle, do not ever think your Mama forgets you—wherever she is, she is thinking of you all the time. She would be very proud of her little Jacob. She is probably looking for you right now. Maybe she is waiting for you in Kenya.”

  “But my stone kept me safe ... I’ll be too ... too ...”

  “Too what?” Monyroor asked.

  “... too scared without it,” Jacob admitted.

  “You are strong now, Jacob, much stronger than you were as a small boy when we left Duk. Although you are only ten years old, you have already lived through more than many people do in a lifetime. If you have survived this long, through all these horrible things, you will live to be a very old man. Of that, I am sure. Don’t be afraid. Wadeng, Jacob ... Wadeng ...”

  Jacob wiped away his tears and tried to smile at his nephew. “Thank you, Monyroor. Of course, you are right. Mama would never forget me. Let’s go to Kenya. Tomorrow will be a better day.” He turned and marched ahead to rejoin the walking centipede of boys.

  One very lucky day, they came upon a field of wild millet, which they flooded into, hungrily plucking the hollow green stems and sucking up the sweet juice.

  “Yum! Almost as good as mango juice,” Willy said.

  Grassy areas for sleeping became more scarce, and the earth was baked and cracked, like pottery left in the fire pit too long. At midday, the heat was so intense, it was like walking on hot coals. Jacob winced with each step he took; when he lifted a foot, he didn’t want to set it back down. “If only my feet were tiny and hard, like a gazelle or an antelope,” he said. “We must lie down, just for a while.” Each day after that, they dug out the scorching top layer of sand, then lay flat on their backs for several minutes, giving their burned and blistered feet a rest. When they came upon colonies of enormous termite mounds, they rested in the shade created by the towering, lumpy piles of sandy earth.

  “We look like a field of dead grasshoppers,” Jacob said, waving his long arms and legs around in the air, trying to create a breeze.

  “I wish we could take big jumps like grasshoppers,” Willy said. “Or even better, fly like the birds!”

  “It is good we are not the aci boot; these termites would be eating our dead bodies!” Jacob watched the busy insects scurrying back and forth around their homes. “Have you ever eaten termites, Willy?”

  “No, I don’t think so—have you?”

  “I remember Grandmother frying them one time; the crops were bad—maybe the termites had eaten them and we were very hungry. If you close your eyes, they’re really quite crisp and tasty.” Jacob closed his eyes and patted his stomach.

  “Yuck! Termites are good builders, I know that,” Willy said. “But I’m not sure about eating them—is he telling me a joke, Monyroor?”

  “No, it is true!”

  “I think they would be a bit too crunchy for me,” Willy said.

  “I am so thirsty,” Jacob complained. “We are not even black anymore; we are turning gray.”

  Jacob knew from watching the others talk, and from the dryness in his own mouth, the way his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, that it was once again coated with white scum.

  One morning, when he opened his eyes, Jacob saw a glimmer of color in the scrub grasses surrounding him. Brilliant blue and green butterflies flitted about, delicately sipping dew from the spiky blades. Jacob lay watching them for several minutes, marveling at their tiny, delicate faces and perfectly patterned wings, while the others slept. Then he crawled forward, and gently began licking the grass. Feeling someone staring at him, he looked up.

  “Are you crazy, Jacob?” Majok asked. “What are you doing?”

  Jacob looked up and licked his lips. “Drinking,” he said. “Aren’t you thirsty?”

  Majok lay down beside him; others soon followed and some began chewing the glistening green bits.

  “You are so smart, Majok,” his friends said.

  “But it was Jacob’s idea first,” Willy said.

  “He copied me,” Majok insisted.

  Jacob shrugged and moved away to a fresh patch of grass. Willy followed him. “We are like the cows,” Willy said, giggling. “But it tastes so good!”

  “I wish we were like the camels, instead,” Jacob said. “Then we’d still have lots of water from the Gilo stored in our humps.”

  Flocks of weaving birds swooping above, starlings and queleas, often meant an untouched field of sorghum or millet lay just ahead. The boys ran shouting into the fields, scaring off the birds. “Remember the guard platforms?” Jacob asked. “Ringing that gong, for hours at a time, cracking that whip to scare away the feathered robbers? I’d give anything to be able to do that for Mama now.”

  “Using the slingshot was fun,” Majok said, holding his fingers up in a y, drawing back his other arm, and taking aim at the squawking birds overhead.

  “Of course, you would like that, Majok. That was Oscar’s favorite part, too.” Jacob smiled at the thought of his friend and his ear-to-ear grin.

  LOKICHOKIO, NORTHERN KENYA, MAY 1992

  When the hot, thirsty centipede finally arrived at the Kenyan border town of Lokichokio, a headquarters of sorts for the SPLA, they stopped to rest overnight. “Can we live here now?” Willy asked, as they sat comfortably around a fire, slurping up the hot stew provided by the villagers. The food provided along their journey by aid agencies and the SPLA was never enough for so many growing boys. Willy’s head once again looked too big for his skinny body.

  “There is no room for us here,” Monyroor said. “We will go deeper into Kenya where we will be safe from the bombs. I have been told the UN is setting up a new camp for us.”

  As they were preparing their beds for the night, Jacob saw Adam approaching. Jacob thought at once of Teacher Matthew. I wonder if he made it across the river. Adam was wearing the same gray jacket and pants as always, but they were even more ragged and torn. One of the elephant’s teeth on his necklace had been broken in two. His hair had grown scruffy since they’d seen him last; his face was thinner and even more fierce-looking. Three wide bands of ammunition crisscrossed his chest like the rough skin of a crocodile.

  “Have you seen my Uncle Daniel yet?” Jacob asked.

  Willy chimed in. “Are we still winning the war? Why are the Antonovs still dropping bombs on us? Have you seen our friend, Monkey Boy Oscar?”

  Adam ignored their questions, and looked directly at Monyroor. “Could I speak with you, Monyroor?” He lay an arm across Monyroor’s shoulders, then pulled back to look at him more closely. “You look as if you’ve been wrestling with another lion!”

  “Not exactly ... it’s a long story,” Monyroor replied.

  “Tell me all about it,” Adam said.

  The two young men walked off together, leaving Jacob and Willy watching them. “What do you think he wants?” Willy asked.

  Jacob shrugged. “Probably the same thing as always. But, don’t worry. Monyroor will stay with us. He won’t leave us alone, Willy.”

  But Jacob strained his ears to overhear their conversation. He had seen Monyroor watching the soldiers more and more carefully when they had visited Pinyudo and Pochalla over the past several months. He could see that Monyroor was listening intently to Adam now, smiling and nodding, agreeing with whatever the soldier was saying. As he watched, Adam handed Monyroor his Kalashnikov. Monyroor raised it to his shoulder and aimed it up
into the peaceful African sky.

  When his nephew returned, Jacob could not get him to talk. “Everything is fine, Jacob,” was all Monyroor would say. “Don’t worry so much.” He remained silent, staring at the stars and rubbing his gaar, as they settled in for the night.

  Feeling safer than usual because of the nearby village, Jacob slept a deep, dreamless sleep that night. He was awakened by Willy shaking his shoulder.

  “He’s gone, Jacob!” Willy shouted.

  “Oscar’s been gone for days, Willy—let me sleep.” Jacob groaned and rolled over.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob. Not Oscar—Monyroor. He’s gone, Jacob. He left us a message.”

  “He is probably just using the bathroom, Willy.”

  “I do not think so, Jacob. Look.”

  Jacob sat up on one elbow, rubbed the crusty sleep from his eyes and looked to where Willy pointed at the ground. Sudan Forever, he read. Wadeng. The words were scratched in the dirt inside a circle made by his nephew’s lion tail belt.

  Jacob jumped to his feet and began racing around the circles of boys spread out on the ground. “Have you seen Monyroor? Have you seen my nephew?”

  “My cousin is missing, also.”

  “And my friend.”

  “My friend, also.”

  Everywhere, sleepy boys awoke to find that others were missing; soon there were many boys racing around the village, frantically searching for their lost friends.

  “The SPLA has taken them to Bonga,” a village elder said finally, upon noticing the commotion. “They have gone into training to fight for Southern Sudan’s freedom, or, at least, that is what the SPLA says they are doing.”

  Jacob plunked himself down on the ground and sat silently, rubbing his ears.

  A shadow fell over him. “Do you have a problem, Jacob?” Majok loomed above him, with his hands on his hips, tongue between his teeth, and a smirk on his face. He had grown since their fight beside the Gilo.