Hare in the Elephant's Trunk

by Jan Coates

  Jacob glared up at him. “No, not at all. My nephew has decided to join the soldiers. He is fighting to save Sudan—so cowards like you can return home to safety.” Jacob got up and walked away.

  “I think he was just tired of looking after you all the time, Jacob,” Majok taunted, following him. “He finally got smart enough and chose to spend his time with brave men, instead of crybabies like you and Willy.”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips together tightly. He pushed back his shoulders and turned to face his old enemy once again. “I don’t have time for your forked tongue today, Majok. Even though you are talking, you are really fighting. I am sick of you—go spit your poison on somebody else!”

  “First Oscar, and now Monyroor—it seems it is you who are poison, Jacob,” Majok jeered, smacking Jacob on the back of the head as he turned away.

  Instant anger swelled up inside Jacob like a heavy, black, twisting tornado. He remembered how sick he had felt, looking at Majok’s puffy, raw face and smelling the warm blood on his own hands after their fight. And here they were again, as he had predicted. What lesson had been learned? When talking, not fighting, is the normal course of things, it works. Matthew’s voice came to him; Jacob closed his eyes and began silently reciting the alphabet. A ... B ... C ... D ... By the time he reached Z, he felt much calmer, his shoulders dropped, and his fists relaxed at his sides. He wiggled his fingers and began to count, slowly, inside his head, drumming his fingers against his leg. By the time he reached ten, he was almost smiling, and the tornado had vanished. Jacob unclenched his teeth, smiled at Majok, turned his back on him, and calmly walked away.

  “Are you crazy?” Majok yelled after him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Willy stood watching, waiting for Jacob, looking at him uncertainly. “Why didn’t you hit him again, Jacob? What will we do now, Jacob? Who will look after us?”

  Jacob didn’t answer for several minutes as he stood, rubbing his ears. His mind was swirling with “what-ifs.” What if Monyroor gets killed? What if Willy gets sick now? What if I get sick? What if we walk to the camp in Kenya and are chased from there? What if we can never go home? Jacob’s thoughts blurred as he thought of Duk. He was no longer sure he knew the meaning of home.

  Jacob bent down and put his hands on Willy’s shoulders. “What good would it have done to fight with Majok again, Willy? Do you think he learned anything the last time? Do you think he changed?”

  “He will always be evil, that’s what I think, Jacob. He will always be a fighter.”

  Jacob nodded. “You are right, Willy. I’m afraid you are right. Majok hated me before, for no reason that I knew of. Now, he has a reason to hate me. Hatred is like a hungry elephant; the more it is fed, the more it wants to eat.”

  “Like Col Muong?” Willy asked.

  Jacob laughed. “I suppose so.” He glanced down at Monyroor’s lion tail belt, then picked it up and ran his fingers down its bristly length. I should not be surprised—the bombs helped Monyroor make his final decision. Maybe Majok and the bombs have also helped me decide what I must do next. Right now, I must be strong—for Willy.

  Jacob smiled, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around Willy’s narrow waist. “Monyroor would want us to look after this for him, Willy. We’ll take turns wearing it until we see him again.”

  “Really, Jacob? I’m sorry, but I think it will wrap around me two times, maybe three.” Willy held up the ends, which were dragging on the ground.

  Jacob laughed. “You’re right, but you are growing quickly. Before long, it will go around you only once.”

  “I am not growing that quickly, Jacob.”

  “We will be all right, Willy. Monyroor is doing what he thinks is best for Southern Sudan. We will look after each other. We are also tough and brave, Willy.”

  “I don’t feel very brave, Jacob. Especially without Monyroor.”

  Jacob gave Willy his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Kenya is waiting for us. Let’s go. It is not far.”

  “Will we have to go to school there, too?”

  “Maybe school isn’t so bad after all, Willy. I am sick of this war. Sick of all the fighting, sick of all the walking, sick of losing friends, sick of boys without parents. There must be a better way, an easier way to learn to live safely in peace, in cieng again. Like before—remember how quiet it was before the war?”

  “I do remember, almost ... sometimes. But I was very little then ...”

  “It was a perfect life, Willy. And we will have that life again.” Jacob put an arm around the small boy’s shoulders.

  “All right, Jacob. Maybe Teacher Matthew will be in Kakuma, also.”

  “I hope so, Willy. Too many people have already died in this war. Maybe teachers like Matthew can help us learn to find peace again.” Jacob picked up his bundle. “Let’s go.”

  “Matthew says we should talk about our problems. I don’t think the men with the bombs are interested in talking to us, Jacob.”

  “Not today, Willy, but maybe someday,” Jacob said. “Someday ...”

  “When will someday be here?” Willy asked. “I’m still impatient.”

  “I don’t know, Willy. But I hope we will see Matthew again in Kenya.” Jacob held up the water-stained storybook Matthew had given him. “I must return this to him.”

  Willy laughed. “I don’t think he will want it now, Jacob.”

  “Come on, Willy. Remember? Wadeng—we must keep our eyes on the future, and on Kenya.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As they walked more deeply into Kenya, the ground became rocky, and gray mountains loomed in the distance like great spiky lizards. When they could, the boys ate grass and leaves, which were painful to digest without water. They kept their eyes open for abuk, a single-leaf plant with deep roots that were often full of water. Occasionally, they came upon a gumel tree, a huge tree with fruit the size of small pumpkins. Many boys gobbled up the syrupy fruit; the orange juice poured down their chins and chests, leaving sticky streaks that were soon plastered with sand. Jacob watched them hungrily, but remembered Monyroor speaking of the gumel fruit. “The fruit is poison. Boys will find out the hard way.” Several hours later, the sticky boys paid a price for their treat when they began trembling with cold and sweating at the same time, as if they had malaria. They clutched their arms to their bloated bellies and shivered as they walked, despite the heat of the sun.

  The only other trees they passed were thorn trees, short desert shrubs with thousands of curved thorns. One entire day was spent walking single-file, elbows held tightly to their sides, hands protecting their eyes, down a narrow path through a huge forest of them. It was impossible to avoid being stabbed by the prickly thorns.

  “Help me, Jacob!” Willy cried, twisting and turning as his clothing snagged on them. “Ouch, ouch—it hurts!”

  Jacob tried to free him, but the little boy’s baggy shorts got completely snarled up on one tree.

  Willy’s eyes filled with tears as the others continued walking, squeezing past him. “Don’t leave me, Jacob!”

  “Stop wiggling, Willy. Stand still so I can get your shorts off.” After Willy was free, Jacob struggled for several more minutes to untangle the shorts.

  “I’m going to get scratched to bits, even my private parts, Jacob,” Willy cried, trying to protect himself with his hands.

  “We’re almost to the end of this stretch. You’ll be fine, Willy. Close your eyes and hold onto my shorts.”

  When they finally got away from the thorny trees, they sat down to assess the damage. “It is good there are no mosquitoes just now!” Jacob said, looking down at the many threads of red blood trickling down their arms and legs. “And no bloodthirsty lions!”

  Willy laughed through his tears. “You can always see something good, no matter how bad things are, Jacob! Should I put my shorts back on now?”

  Each night, as they made camp on the rocky ground, the walkers chose a place far away from their sleeping circles to use a
s a latrine. Stomach cramps sent boys racing to the hastily dug hole, where buzzing clouds of mosquitoes often swarmed them as they relieved themselves. With so little food in his belly, Jacob did not often have to use the toilet.

  “This bag is too hot,” Willy said, squirming to make himself comfortable in his plastic-mesh grain bag.

  “Think of it as a cocoon. Maybe you’ll be a beautiful butterfly in the morning.” Jacob pulled his own bag more tightly around him. “You don’t want to turn into an ugly warthog again, do you?”

  Oscar’s laughing face with its big ears, his crooked arm, and raspy voice came to Jacob often as he walked, or as he lay, waiting for sleep to end the day. He is a fighter, Jacob thought. He would never give up. Dear Mama: I miss you ... and I miss Oscar, too ... and Monyroor ...

  Chapter Twenty

  The rainy days in Pochalla had become a distant memory. Any riverbeds they passed now were full only of clay, lined with mazes of spider-web cracks. In desperation, boys sometimes took mouthfuls of the river mud, hoping to suck a few drops of water from it.

  Jacob and Willy watched Majok and some of the others as they shoveled handfuls into their mouths. “I don’t think there is much water in that mud,” Willy said.

  “I think you are right,” Jacob answered. “They will end up being more thirsty when their throats are clogged with clay.” The sounds of hacking and gagging as boys tried to spit up the mud soon proved him right.

  “Look at those big footprints,” Willy called out as they walked along the top of a riverbank one day.

  “Good work, Little Raven. Elephant tracks—and look, they’re full of water.” Jacob lay down next to one. Each deep footprint soon had several boys fanned out in a circle around it, lapping up the small pools of mucky water.

  SPLA soldiers continued to drive by occasionally in battered, rusting trucks that rattled along noisily in the rough dirt tracks. Soldiers stood in the back with their thick arms folded across their chests. “Who wants to help us save Southern Sudan?” they shouted, as they stared fiercely at the line of walking boys. “Who is strong and brave enough?” Adam was not with them. He got what he wanted—he persuaded Monyroor to join them. I hope my nephew is happy with his decision.

  Jacob stared at the dusty feet of the boys in front of him when he felt the soldiers’ eyes fall upon him, sizing him up. He had grown during his three years in Pinyudo and was approaching manhood. He ran his fingers across his smooth forehead and wondered if he would be home in time for his initiation ceremony.

  “Yes, you are walking in the right direction.” Jacob awoke one morning to hear strange adult Dinka voices. “Kakuma Refugee Camp is about three days’ walking in that direction. We have just come from there, and although there are many people, Sudanese, Somali, and Ethiopian, there is also food and water. The UN is there now. In Kakuma, you will be safe from the wars.”

  “Thank you, uncle,” a boy answered. “And where do you go now?”

  “We are walking to Juba, in Sudan, hoping to do some trading in the souk there. The rainy season will soon be upon us once again, and we hope to arrive ahead of the floods.”

  “We are praying for the rainy season to arrive,” Jacob said.

  “Even the cloudy season would be very nice,” Willy said.

  “I must tell you, the rainy season is different in Kakuma; it is very short, with little rain,” the man replied. “You must also beware of a fierce tribe in these parts, the Turkana. They are poor nomads, traveling with large herds of goats. Watch out for them—they are desperate and will try to steal whatever you have.”

  “We don’t have to worry about that—we don’t have anything, except our blankets and a pot,” Jacob answered.

  “Keep safe,” the boys said as the men departed.

  “That is surely good news,” Jacob said excitedly. “If there are many Dinka people there, maybe Mama will be there, also.”

  “Oscar is probably already there!” Willy said. “He’s always the best and the first.”

  Jacob laughed. “Maybe ...”

  “We have not seen him for a very long time,” the little boy added. “I wonder if he still has our soccer ball.” Willy climbed up on Jacob’s shoulders to look back over the centipede’s tail, then ahead to the front. “Not today,” he said sadly as he jumped down. “Maybe tomorrow ...”

  Jacob remained silent.

  The good news passed quickly up and down the line, giving everybody an extra burst of energy. “We are like new calves in spring today, kicking up our heels,” Jacob said as they pranced along. When they stopped for the night and had prepared their beds on the ground, a group of boys began singing and dancing in a circle, raising their arms high in the shape of cattle horns. Jacob joined in when he recognized a song that Matthew had taught them in school.

  I am a small boy

  But I am the gentleman of the future;

  I am the goodness of my land

  And I will do my best;

  Teach me that my mind

  May accept the word of learning;

  Learning is power.

  Learning is the best.

  Gradually, more and more boys joined in, jumping, chanting, clapping, and laughing. Some boys played their bushbuck horns. They sang of history, family, and as always, the cattle.

  “I miss our cattle,” Jacob said. “I miss their soft, warm smell when they’re in the cattle byre, sleeping in the sweet hay.”

  “But I think you do not miss the soft, warm smell of their dung plops!” Willy laughed and plugged his nose.

  When at last they had finished their celebration, when all was quiet and the stars were the only ones still dancing, they heard the loud, distinct two-note call of a kudu horn. It echoed in the distant stone mountains around them.

  “There must be a village nearby,” Jacob said. “At least the bugling will keep the snorting bush pigs and trumpeting elephants from disturbing our sleep this happy night.”

  “Remember Abu?” Willy said. “Don’t you wish we could have some honey?”

  “Wadeng, Willy. Wadeng,” Jacob whispered. To himself, he added, Please, God, help tomorrow be better—for all of us.

  While he walked, Jacob practiced English in his head for entertainment. Pictures of letters and words somersaulted through his mind, causing Willy to ask why he was smiling. “I’m thinking of being back at school when we get to Kakuma,” Jacob answered. “I hope Teacher Matthew will be there.”

  “Me, too,” Willy answered. “He is nice, especially for somebody who has gone to school. Not like Majok. Where is Majok, anyway? He hasn’t been bothering us so much.”

  “He is at the front of the centipede, of course,” Jacob said. “Telling the others where to go, I think. He is probably finding somebody new who is interested in fighting with him.”

  Several times, they saw the Turkana and their goats, but always from a distance. The herdsmen did not approach the walking boys and kept to themselves.

  The deep rumbling of a heavy truck engine interrupted the shuffling of feet in the dirt one morning. A huge, rust-spotted tanker truck drove by, then stopped just ahead of the line, causing it to halt. Two soldiers dressed in camouflage got out, leaned their rifles against the massive tires, and stood by the back of the truck, their arms folded across their broad chests.

  Willy clung to Jacob. “They have guns!” he whispered. “What do they want?”

  “WATER.” Jacob read the crooked black letters painted on the side of the tanker.

  “Really, Jacob? Does it really say water? I can’t wait!”

  “I am afraid we’ll have to join the lineup,” Jacob said.

  Up and down the line, shouts of “Water! Water!” filled the air. Boys left their spots and began crowding around the truck, pushing and shoving. The men called out directions in Dinka.

  “Look, Jacob.” Willy pointed into the desert where a group of Turkana stood watching. “They are probably thirsty, too. And their goats.”

  “I don’t think these Sud
anese soldiers are going to share their precious water with the Turkana,” Jacob said.

  “But isn’t this their land? They’re sharing it with us,” Willy said.

  Jacob shrugged.

  Willy stuck out his tongue. “Let me see yours, Jacob.” Jacob’s tongue was once again covered with the foamy white scum of thirst. “Like freshly squeezed milk!” Willy said.

  “We will have to wait our turn,” Jacob answered. “There are many white tongues.” Most of that day, they waited patiently for their turn to drink. Other boys used their elbows and size to get to the front first, all of them trying to get their drink before the water was all gone.

  “They are like baby goats fighting for Mama’s milk,” Jacob said. “Look at Majok and his friends ... meh ... meh ... meh ...”

  Willy laughed, turned his fingers into horns, and butted Jacob in the stomach.

  “At least we’re not walking.” Jacob sat down and examined the soles of his feet. They had softened during his time at Pinyudo, and were now covered with dirty open cuts and scabs again. “Remember when only one cut used to make you cry?” he asked Willy. “I think we are past crying now.”

  Jacob drank deeply from the cup he was offered. At first he wrinkled up his nose; it didn’t smell like clean river water, but the cool wetness sliding down his throat soon made him forget the strange odor. He soaked his cracked lips in the water and sipped it very slowly. “Thank you,” he said to the soldiers as he handed back the tin cup. “I was so thirsty.”

  When all of the boys had taken a turn, the Turkana goat herders approached the water truck. They were very skinny, and their clothing hung on them like rags. They pleaded with the soldiers, clutching their throats, then clasping their hands together and pointing at the truck. The soldiers shoved them away roughly, climbed up into the truck, and rumbled off.

  The boys’ bellies made sloshing sounds as they set out walking once again. Willy jumped up and down and giggled. “My belly is like a calabash.”

  “If only we had a big gourd to carry some extra water with us,” Jacob said.