Hold My Hand I'm Dying

by John Gordon Davis

  Samson was pointing out to the open water. Two hundred yards out a line of trees stuck high above the water, a dozen trees on the top of a submerged hillock, and the branches were black and bending under the weight of creatures clustered on them.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Birds, perhaps,’ Samson said.

  ‘No,’ Mahoney said, ‘not birds.’

  He turned the boat and headed for the thicket of trees. As they drew nearer the trees began to shake and black creatures began to jump and scramble over each other like lice.

  ‘Monkeys?’

  He cut the engine and the boat drifted towards them, and the roar of the engine was taken over by the shrill chattering of the little apes, like the applause of an audience.

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Every branch, every available piece of the trees was taken up with monkeys. Monkeys clutched the trunk with their arms and legs flung desperately round, monkeys clutched on branches, dangled on twigs, monkeys clutched on to each other, sat on each other’s backs, burrowed under each other’s chests and between each other’s legs. Every monkey that could turn its head was staring at the boat drifting closer to them; twisting their necks they chattered and screamed. The boat drifted closer and there was a great panic and a scramble and some monkeys jumped on to other monkeys and some tried to burrow deeper under others’ bellies and some crawled up the backs of others. Monkeys lost their hold and fell into the water and they splashed around feebly and swam for the tree trunks again but when they got there there was no room for them and they reached up and clung to the fur and the feet of the other monkeys and they tried to climb up on each other’s backs and they stood on each other’s heads, but they could not get out of the water, so they just hung on there. One small monkey that had lost its hold had caught on to the tail of another before it hit the water and it tried to climb up the tail but it found nothing to grip and it just hung on to the tail with both its arms upstretched and it blinked at Mahoney and Samson Ndhlovu and they could see its small heart knocking against the soft fur of its chest. ‘Oh God.’

  Every leaf, every piece of bark, every soft twig had been stripped off the trees and eaten, and now there was nothing left to eat. And even through their winter coats it could be seen that they were thin and starving. And then Mahoney peered closer at the monkey clinging to the bottom of the trunk, and he could see the monkey had been clinging there for a long time, for its legs and hindquarters were in the water and they were waterlogged and the skin and the fur had started to peel off.

  ‘Oh God.’

  The monkeys stared at them and they stared at the monkeys. ‘What can we do, Nkosi?’

  Mahoney shook his head. What could be done? There were two hundred monkeys in the trees.

  ‘What would they do if we caught some and brought them into the boat?’ Samson said.

  ‘Bite,’ Mahoney said flatly. ‘Monkeys bite, and then you get lockjaw.’

  ‘Shall we try, to see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They leaned over the gunnels and paddled the boat up to the nearest tree.

  ‘I’ll try the one who is hanging on to his friend’s tail,’ Mahoney said.

  It tried desperately to scramble higher up the tail, but it could not and it just hung there watching, its heart beating very fast.

  ‘Come on, little fellow.’ Mahoney leaned over the stem and stretched his hand gingerly towards the little thumping breast and he made soothing whistling noises. The monkey tried to scramble again but then found it could go no higher and it just hung. Mahoney’s hand came within a foot of the breast and the monkey curled back its mouth and bared its little yellow fangs and made an angry noise in its throat. Mahoney withdrew his hand quickly. A great chattering and a scramble resumed in all the trees and more fell off and swam to the trunks.

  ‘Come on, I’m trying to help you.’

  He stretched out his hand again and again the treacherous fangs were bared and the scramble on the trees resumed.

  ‘Oh, shut up, you bloody idiots, I’m trying to rescue you!’

  Mahoney stretched out again and got very close to the monkey and it tried to bite him. ‘It is no good,’ Samson said.

  ‘No,’ Mahoney said.

  They looked at the little creatures sadly.

  ‘Sorry, there’s nothing we can do for you, fellows.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Samson said, ‘very sorry.’

  ‘Except this,’ Mahoney said sadly. He picked up the 12 bore shotgun. He opened the breach and put two cartridges in the double barrel. He opened a tin box and brought out a big carton of cartridges and put them on the seat beside him. He passed Samson the .22.

  ‘Shoot any that fall wounded,’ he said.

  They paddled the boat a little way from the trees. Mahoney pulled back the hammers on each barrel and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. The monkeys all stared at him, chattering softly now. Mahoney felt sick. It was like firing into a crowd of people. He sighted the barrel into the middle of the nearest tree, and he could feel his hands shaking, and the nausea.

  ‘Sorry, chaps,’ and quickly he pulled the first trigger.

  There was a deafening crack and his shoulder was jolted and the boat rocked. His eardrums sang and the valley was full of the explosion. Immediately, blindly he pointed the barrel into a different position in the same tree and pulled the other trigger. Frantically he lowered the gun and broke the breach and rammed two more cartridges into the barrels and snapped the breach to. Samson was standing up in the bows and firing rapidly into the water with the .22 repeater.

  The carnage. The pandemonium, the blood, the screams, the clutching, the jumping. Monkeys were blown to bits out of the trees, blood and fur and bodies flying, monkeys screamed and jumped and fell wounded into the water, monkeys thrashed in the water with blood running from them, monkeys clung wounded to the naked branches and ripped open their wounds with their fingers and pulled out their insides, monkeys made it back to the trunk and clawed their way back up dripping water and blood. And the whole time the screams, the terrified squeals and chattering, and the scramble and clutching in the other trees. Again and again Mahoney fired through the trees, no longer sickened, only frantic to destroy and end the fear and the carnage. Samson stood firing in the bows and the crack crack of their rifles filled the valley.

  Then it was quiet. All over. A few monkeys twitched in the bloody water and Mahoney took the .22 from Samson. ‘Start the motor.’

  Mahoney stood in the bows and shot at the wounded creatures. Then Samson opened the throttle gently and they nosed through the trees among the dead. The water was clogged with little furry bodies and blood and hanging flesh. They went through the battlefield and they leaned over the sides and lifted the dying out of the water and cracked them on the head with their axes.

  ‘This will be a good place for crocodiles, tonight,’ Samson said.

  ‘I think it’s too far out. Pick out a few big ones, we’ll try them for bait.’

  ‘Yebo, Nkosi.’

  Clinging to the trunk of a tree only a few inches above the water, shivering and wet was a baby only a month or two old. It was clinging wearily and lost and its head was turned to them.

  ‘Take the boat there.’

  The boat inched up to the tree trunk and the tiny monkey turned its head away and tried to bury it into the trunk. It tried to climb up the trunk but it could not. Mahoney stretched out and plucked it off the trunk. It made tiny protesting noises and he brought it into the boat. He held it in both hands in his lap and it shivered.

  ‘Poor little bugger, he’ll never play rugger.’

  First it wriggled, trying to clamber out of the hands holding it, casting wild anxious glances all round the boat and making its noises. Then it grew accustomed to the hands holding it and it stopped struggling and looked up at Mahoney with big round eyes.

  ‘Have we got anything for it to eat?’

  ‘Only mealiemeal and the buck’s meat for our supper, Nkosi.’

&nbs
p; ‘He may eat mealiemeal. Mix a little with water.’

  Samson came holding the dough in the palm of his hand. He pinched some off and held it out to the monkey. It cowered away and he dabbed the dough against its nose. The monkey sneezed and licked its nose.

  ‘Go on.’

  He held the dough out to it again. Then the monkey extended a tiny hand and grabbed the dough. It sat back on Mahoney’s knee in the cage of his hands and raptly stuffed the porridge into its mouth and then looked around for more. They both laughed. ‘Give him some more.’

  They sat for ten minutes feeding the monkey. The monkey’s mouth was smeared with dough and he leant out and scraped the crumbs off Samson’s hand.

  ‘What will you call him, Nkosi?’

  ‘I think a good name would be Little Ndhlovu, after his elder brother,’ Mahoney said, and Samson laughed so long and loud with his wide mouth flashing teeth that he rocked the boat.

  ‘Pass me my bush jacket,’ Mahoney said.

  He put on the baggy tunic and emptied one of the big pockets. He stuffed the monkey in there. It crouched down in the bottom of the pocket.

  ‘Work,’ Mahoney said, and stepped over the meat and the carcasses to the stem. He opened the throttle and they churned away from the blasted trees and the bloody carcass-clogged water, heading into the open, then they travelled down the shore line again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They chugged up the ravine in the late afternoon. Behind them stretched the tongue of the lake in the trough of the valley, still in the slanting sunlight, but they were in the shadow of a great shoulder of the escarpment and the banks of the tributary were high and left the river in deep shadow. The banks of the river were mottled with white sand beaches and big grey rocks and tall sharp reeds and there were eerie bends. The sun went down.

  ‘Rock ahead, Nkosi,’ and Mahoney swung the boat to starboard.

  Samson turned and picked up a hunting lamp. He held it up to Mahoney and Mahoney nodded and Samson switched it on and played the beam ahead.

  ‘We’ll camp at the next beach,’ Mahoney said.

  They carried their gear high up the dark sand and dumped it.

  ‘What about the monkeys and the crocodile flesh, Nkosi?’

  ‘Put it in the corner near the rock,’ Mahoney said, ‘it stinks.’ He sniffed his shoulder. ‘More than I do.’

  Mahoney built a large fire in the middle of the beach and Samson unpacked the gear and brought out the cooking pots. Into one he put mealiemeal and water and into the other he put ribs of venison.

  ‘Wish we had some potatoes and onions and peas,’ Mahoney said, watching him. ‘I am growing weary of sadza. Couldn’t you grow some back at the base camp?’

  ‘Yes, Nkosi,’ Samson said. He brightened. ‘But we would have to go to Kariba to get the seeds!’

  ‘Next month,’ Mahoney said, and Samson grinned.

  ‘I wish we had beer,’ Samson said absently studying the coals. ‘And fresh vegetables would be delicious,’ he added. Mahoney grinned. ‘How is the little one?’

  Mahoney said: ‘Gee, I’d forgotten about him.’ He unbuttoned his pocket and looked down. The little monkey was pressed against him, his arms outstretched and with each hand he gripped a handful of the rough seam lining. He looked up and blinked at Mahoney.

  ‘In the morning we’ll get you some green stuff, boy,’ he said. ‘Go to sleep, you’ve had a big day.’

  He transferred the monkey into the pouch of his haversack and buckled it down. The monkey sleepily transferred its grip to the rough canvas seams of the haversack pocket.

  He picked up a hunting torch and played the beam over the river. No yellow eyes glared at him. He put the lamp down, the beam still on the river.

  ‘We might attract a few right here.’

  They ate the food in silence in the firelight. Then Samson scoured the pots and plates in the wet sand. They loaded the lamps and the rifles and four long gaffs into the boat, they heaped plenty of heavy wood on to the fire and put out into the river.

  Each had a lamp. Samson sat in the bows and shone ahead, Mahoney sat at the motor, playing the beam in long slow sweeps up the banks. The boat was much lighter and Mahoney kept the throttle at quarter speed. They chugged up the black river.

  It was half an hour before the lamps picked out the first pair of yellow eyes, far ahead. The crocodile was nosing across the river and it turned to face the light and marked time, then it began to swim slowly towards it. Mahoney took the boat twenty yards further upstream, then he saw a tree hanging over the water. He cut down the throttle and eased over to the tree and Samson loosely tied the boat to it.

  They did not speak, Samson kept his beam on the crocodile’s eyes, Mahoney swept his light around, looking for more. The crocodile drifted slowly down to them, mesmerised by the strong lamp. Mahoney’s light swept up and down the riverbanks opposite to them. He saw no more eyes.

  ‘He’s a hermit.’

  The crocodile was ten yards from them, squirming slowly through the water, its nostrils just poking above the water, its yellow cat’s eyes gleaming in its high ugly forehead, its broad hard corrugated back twisting slowly in the water.

  ‘All right, hold tight.’

  Mahoney felt for the nearest .303 rifle, worked the bolt action and brought a bullet into the breach. Samson stood in the bows holding the branch with one hand and with his other he held the beam on the crocodile’s eyes. Mahoney sighted down the barrel. The rifle rang out and the crocodile kicked and thrashed in the water.

  ‘Right between the eyes! Die, you bastard!’

  They lashed the beast to the gunnel. Mahoney made another sweep with his lamp and they pushed on up-river. Ten minutes later Samson said softly: ‘Ah!’

  They had come slowly round a bend in the river. There were masses of reeds casting long shadows, and some big rocks on the bank and there were mudbanks between the reeds. On a bank far ahead, half hidden in reeds, three pairs of yellow eyes glared at them. Then a fourth pair appeared through the reeds, then a fifth, and in mid-stream there was a swish of water and a sixth pair of yellow eyes turned to glare at them.

  ‘This is more like it,’ Mahoney said softly. ‘Maybe you’ll get your trip to Kariba sooner than a month. Hold the beam on them, I’ll look for a mooring.’

  He took the boat over to the starboard bank, searching the reeds for something substantial to hold on to.

  ‘Nkosi, careful for rocks!’ Mahoney jerked. In the diffused glare of the for’ard lamp he saw the rocks under the water. Then he heard a crashing through the reeds near him and he twisted around and saw a long dark form run down the bank into the water, a big crocodile running on its toes with its legs outstretched, like a dragon. It hit the water behind them and disappeared into the blackness.

  ‘Jesus.’

  Mahoney swung the boat hard into deeper water. ‘Rocks?’

  ‘Okay now, Nkosi.’

  ‘Where can we stop?’

  ‘I think there is a place right here, Nkosi.’

  ‘Throw out the anchor, then, but don’t get it wedged for ever.’

  There were rocks below the water still. Samson threw out the small anchor and it caught behind a rock. It was shallow.

  The boat lay downstream of the anchor, ten feet from the thick reeds of the starboard bank. It was not the best position. Mahoney had a horror of crocodiles and he preferred to have an open bank nearby when he was surrounded by them, as he suspected he was now, but it was as good as they would find at short notice. At least it was shallow.

  They played their lamps back over the water. Mahoney whistled and Samson said ‘Ah!’

  There were eleven pairs of baleful eyes. The river was thirty yards wide at this point and the crocodiles were still upstream of them, perhaps sixty yards away. They came slithering down off the muddy banks, like filthy great maggots Mahoney thought, and slid treacherously into the dark water and began to swim slowly in a horrible armada downstream to the light.

  Mahoney p
assed Samson one of the .303 rifles.

  ‘I will start from the left and work in, you start from the right. Do not shoot until I do.’

  They sat crouched in the boat, each holding a hunting lamp in his left hand under the barrel, the right holding the butt against his side. They kept the lamps played on the reptiles.

  ‘Don’t jump around,’ Mahoney said, as he said to him every time this situation arose, ‘unless you want a bullet through you. That would cure your thirst.’ Samson grinned in the darkness. He was excitedly calculating his bonus on eleven crocodiles.

  ‘We have fourteen bullets in our magazines,’ Mahoney said, ‘so there is no reason for not getting all the vile ones. It will not be as easy retrieving them,’ he added.

  He swung his lamp aside quickly and played it on the water downstream, looking for the crocodile that had run off the bank behind him, but he did not see any. Then he returned it upstream.

  The crocodiles were drawing close.

  ‘Right,’ Mahoney whispered. Samson crouched lower in the prow and rested the elbow of his left arm on the prow. Mahoney shifted to get secure. He knelt up on the cross-seat in front of him, one knee resting. He did not think it was the best position but there was little choice. He brought the rifle up slowly and squinted in his lamplight down the barrel, the lamp trained on the left-most reptile. As he did so, he recognised the front sight of the rifle as Samson’s. He felt a flash of irritation: Samson’s rifle was an older and less accurate one than his own, but he shrugged mentally. It was too late to swap and the rifle was good enough. The crocodiles were twenty yards away now.

  ‘Fire,’ he breathed and he squeezed the trigger carefully.

  A crash, a jolt that stunned, a kick, a spinning of the black night, the stars overhead reeling, a fall, a clutching, a stumble, the blinding smack of his face on the gunnel, the topple, the river coming sideways up to meet him, the splash, the cold water closing quickly over him, the roar of bubbles as he coughed, the water in his nose and mouth, the sudden blinding blackness of the water and the inward scream of terror. Mahoney was knocked over the side into the river before he knew what hit him.