People of Heaven

by Beverley Harper

  There was nothing other than financial gain in the man’s heart and mind. No conscience for the cruelty he was about to inflict on the unsuspecting animal, no awareness that the black rhinoceros was perilously close to extinction. These issues were alien to a man who relied on self-taught skills simply to feed and clothe his family.

  He lashed the foot snares to trees beside the trail. Then, taking his axe, he chopped down several others just off the path, wiring their thick trunks tightly to the neck nooses which he carefully concealed in surrounding bushes. Each log was approximately two metres long and weighed around 200 kilograms. Having satisfied himself that the snares were correctly positioned and could not be easily detected, he packed up his suitcase and moved along the trail towards the waterhole, where he would wait for the big cow to come for her evening drink.

  No more than a kilometre away, the black rhinoceros cow browsed happily in the cooling afternoon, stripping twigs and leaves off the acacia trees and munching contentedly, untroubled by the wickedly sharp thorns which, on lesser beings, cut through skin, flesh and muscle. As evening fell, she found the game trail and, in her usual fast walk, set off for the waterhole. On her back, undisturbed by the faster pace, picking at ticks and other parasites, were two tick-birds and an egret.

  Nearing the waterhole, anticipation caused her to pick up speed. Looking forward to a cooling drink and a wallow in the mud, confident in her great thick wrinkled hide and considerable bulk, she trod mightily along the familiar path. Quite unexpectedly her hind foot picked up a ground snare and, in turning to investigate, her head went through one of the neck nooses. She felt the sudden drag and tried to shake them off, impatient to get to water, not yet alarmed.

  The high-tensile wires tightened and the cow, characteristically, lost her temper, lunging forward in frustrated annoyance. The nooses bit deep. Steel cables cut through her hide and the cow started to panic. She bucked and thrashed, lunging and heaving against the snares and with each powerful movement the cables cut deeper. They cut through sinew and flesh. The neck noose tightened against her windpipe and began to strangle. There was blood everywhere and the cow, still too angry to feel much pain, reared and pulled until the rusty, jagged steel reached bone. Then, nearly one tonne of exceedingly angry rhinoceros, with one mighty jerk, snapped the tree anchoring the foot snare and lurched forward up the game trail, dragging the heavy log attached to the snare around her neck.

  Choking and wheezing for air, the now frantic rhinoceros plunged blindly along the track, shaking her head in a vain attempt to lose the tree trunk which bounced crazily in her wake. Eyes wide with fear she ran, mindless with terror until, crashing down a steep and rocky part of the game trail, she lost her balance, slid and rolled off the path and into the scrub beyond, thrashing and bellowing. And the log attached to her neck noose caught between two rocks.

  Then the agony started. As she lay there with flanks heaving, eyes wide and staring, mouth open and desperate for air through her tortured windpipe, the sharp, searing, throbbing pain hit home knocking the fight from her tortured limbs. The steel cable rubbing against bone in her leg sent shock waves up through her hip and spine. The snare crushing air from her lungs sent thumping, rolling surges of pain into her head and down her spine fusing with the agony coming up from her near severed leg.

  She lay trembling, hurting, and very, very afraid. With less and less frequency she thrashed and fought against the snares, but the movement sent blackness to her numbed brain. Some time around midnight the foetus, that had just begun to grow inside her, died.

  The poacher found her without difficulty. He was indifferent to her suffering. Death meant access to the horn which, in turn, would bring much money. He sat patiently, several metres away, waiting for her to die.

  The black rhinoceros cow didn’t die that night, or the following day, or even the following night. The ants and flies, the infection which set in, the loss of blood, thirst, slow strangulation, the cheeky vultures and hyena, all contributed to her death. Half the time, during her last twenty-four hours, she was mercifully unconscious. When she was aware of what was going on the pain was unbearable. The poacher didn’t shoot her. Bullets cost money and a shot might alert the rangers. Instead, having retrieved the snares still hidden in the bushes, he occupied himself collecting fruit to eat and by fashioning a small bow and arrow for his youngest son.

  Some time around midnight on the third night, after enduring more agony than any man or beast should ever have to face, the rhinoceros took one last shuddering breath, heaved her flanks painfully, and sought refuge in the silky blackness of death. She went gratefully. If she could have understood the reason behind her brutal and horrifying death, she might have reacted characteristically. With a full-blown, lusty, joyful, head-down, fifty kilometre an hour charge. But no-one could explain to her why she had to die.

  When Michael King found the cow, or what remained of her, he let forth a stream of obscenities. It was not only the death of one black rhinoceros which upset him – though God knows, the reserve had so few that this loss constituted a twenty per cent reduction in their numbers – it was the death of this particular animal which rocked him.

  For the past three years Michael’s work at Umfolozi Game Reserve had included a project which was attempting to save black rhinoceros from the very real possibility of extinction. In neighbouring Hluhluwe, similar Parks Board operations had already come far towards saving the white rhino from the same fate. The authorities were not alone in their attempts. Indian rhinoceros were now protected by both the Indian and Nepalese governments while a number of South-East Asian countries were trying to increase the population of the Sumatran rhinoceros before it suffered the same fate as its already extinct cousin, the Javan rhinoceros.

  The catalyst for this scramble to save the rhino had been publication of the Red Data Book by the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources, in Switzerland, which listed all rhinoceros as endangered. Around the world the rhinoceros had long been hunted for its horn, a fused mass of hair, rather like that of a fingernail, which was prized as a material for ornate Oriental dagger handles or powdered to yield a supposed aphrodisiac.

  Michael’s project was small by comparison with some. The reason was due in part to the nature of the very animal he was trying to save. As many who had come into contact with this highly volatile beast found out the hard way, uBejane does not like people, especially those intent on darting and transporting him for anything up to 1000 kilometres in order to save his life. Even if it were possible to make him understand that it was for his own good, uBejane would most likely still try very hard to kill those attempting to help him. Such was his nature.

  Many willing hands went up for the more docile white rhino but volunteers to capture and transport the black were few. Michael had only five beasts in his care. The project now had three cows and two bulls. To protect them, a high-security enclosure spreading over several square kilometres of the reserve was built. There, they had as much to eat as they wanted, an abundance of clean water and several mud wallows. There, the snares, pits, arrows and rifles used by poachers couldn’t reach them. The only trouble was, there, in their sanctuary, the animals wouldn’t breed.

  ‘We’ve given it our best shot, it’s just not working,’ one ranger voiced the opinion of the rest at their monthly meeting. ‘They need more space. I vote we give them the freedom of the park.’

  ‘They’ll be poached,’ Michael warned.

  ‘What’s the difference?’ another asked. ‘Poached or without offspring, the outcome is the same.’

  He had a point. ‘Two then. One bull and one cow,’ Michael conceded. ‘We can let the rest out once we’ve finished upgrading the fences.’

  Once released into the main park, Michael watched over the two animals like an anxious mother hen. The rhinos didn’t make it easy for him since they could usually be found at opposite ends of the reserve. But every Monday, on his day off, he searched the 50,000 h
ectare reserve in his Parks Board vehicle and, where the land was too hilly, on foot, until he was satisfied that his charges were safe. During the rest of each week he kept a watchful eye open for them as he went about his more routine duties.

  One other kept a watch on them too, and, in the course of doing so, became aware that every Monday one of the rangers drove or walked all over the reserve until he had located both animals. So he set his snares on a Tuesday. And the barely pregnant black rhinoceros died in unspeakable agony on Thursday.

  Which was why Michael now stood in the African bush, tears in his eyes and a cold rage in his heart. ‘Bastards!’ he finally spat out.

  Dyson Mpande, his tracker, assistant and best friend, pursed his lips and whistled silently. ‘Only one, Nkawu.’ Dyson indicated the ground. ‘This is the work of one man.’

  Michael wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand. ‘Bastard then.’

  ‘They do not understand.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ Michael gritted. ‘Maybe not when it’s for food but they know this is wrong.’

  ‘The money comes from white men.’

  ‘I know,’ Michael said. ‘That doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘The white man is never caught.’

  ‘Only because he’s had more practice at breaking the law. The poor bastard who did this probably had no option. The money is irresistible.’

  Africa doesn’t leave much behind. Hyena, jackals, vultures and ants had all but removed the evidence. Another few days and the cow’s existence might never have been. Michael stared down at the pathetic remains. The taut snares were still there. Scattered rocks, broken bushes and trees told of the cow’s attempts to free herself. ‘Fuck this,’ Michael yelled to no-one in particular.

  Dyson understood Michael’s frustration. For three years they had known this particular cow. She even had a name. Betty Black. When the decision had been made to release two rhino into the main reserve, Michael had deliberately chosen Betty Black. She was the most volatile of the cows, by far the most aggressive and, he thought, the most likely to survive. But nothing wild could stack up against the cunning of man – not when he’s thinking about his back pocket.

  Michael had been elated when Betty Black accepted the bull into her territory. At last, the breeding program was under way. And not a moment too soon. Government funding for the project was running low, and without financial support from somewhere, the program, like so many others, was likely to die.

  ‘Come on,’ Michael said harshly. ‘Let’s see if we can track the bastard.’ His anger was less directed at the man responsible than it was at the plight of the black rhinoceros. Once, these mighty beasts had roamed all of Zululand. Now, with farms taking up their habitat, the only place they remained was in a couple of game reserves. And even there, they weren’t safe. Michael didn’t actually blame the poacher. He didn’t even particularly want to catch him, knowing that if he did, it would inflict more hardship on a family who, most probably, already had difficulty making ends meet. But he knew that unless an example was made of this man, others would copy his deeds. The Zulus had to understand. They could not be exempted from the world’s growing concern that the animal population was becoming extinct at the rate of one species a year. So what if the Zulus once measured manliness against hunting prowess? The world was changing and the population explosion would see to it that it continued to change. Traditional hunting had become poaching. And the Zulus had to adapt with it.

  Michael clamped down on any feelings of sympathy for a race of people who, in the main, were bewildered by their altered lifestyle. Whoever poached this cow had done so dishonourably and for the wrong reasons. As he climbed back into the Land Rover he felt the crackle of paper in his shirt pocket. The letter! He hadn’t opened it. It was from his mother. He’d read it later.

  Dyson swung in next to him. ‘He’ll have cut the fence.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Michael started the engine. ‘Right next to his village if we’re lucky.’

  Thirty minutes later they found where the diamond mesh perimeter had been breached. ‘Bloody fool,’ Michael muttered. The hole had not been repaired and was large enough for a lion to pass through. ‘He’d be the first to scream if a cat climbed into his cattle.’

  ‘Lots of spoor,’ Dyson pointed. ‘And close to the village.’

  Leaving the vehicle, Michael and Dyson slipped through the gap and walked the last kilometre to the village. The poacher had been easy to find. An empty bottle of cane spirit at the door of his hut, a brand new bicycle leaning against the wall and two full five gallon tins of paraffin in front proclaimed the hut owner as someone who had just had a financial windfall. They found the man inside, dead drunk. His wife and children watched fearfully, knowing they were about to pay a terrible price for their new-found wealth. Dyson spoke to the chief, who was adamant that none of his villagers had gone into the reserve and returned with the horn from a rhinoceros. But when Michael told him in fluent Zulu that unless he told the truth, before nightfall the village would be crawling with members of the South African Police, the chief had a change of heart.

  ‘Was that using or abusing the system?’ Michael asked after the poacher had been arrested.

  Dyson shrugged unhappily. ‘A bit of both.’

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you,’ Michael admitted. ‘I feel like a bully.’

  ‘You’ve said it yourself many times, Nkawu. There can be only one set of rules.’

  ‘But there isn’t, is there? Oh sure, if it’s convenient but, more often than not . . . Look, I was wrong back there. I used a threat against which the chief had no defence.’

  ‘Don’t wear yourself out worrying about it. The chief will be used to it.’

  ‘That’s not the point, dammit,’ Michael burst out, angry with himself. ‘I should know better.’

  ‘What else could you do? You wanted to punish the culprit, make an example of him. If you’d done things the tribal way, sure, you’d have a culprit, the witchdoctor would have given you someone to blame. But we both know it wouldn’t be the real offender. He’d give you a troublemaker or the least productive man, someone the village wanted to get rid of.’

  Michael glanced at Dyson and smiled slightly. His friend was right. ‘Sometimes you think like a white man.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Dyson said dryly. ‘You sure know how to make a man feel good.’

  They laughed, totally at ease together while, all around them, the system fed on its voracious appetite of colour-based hatred. Both were part of a tiny percentage of black and white South Africans who ignored the system, but it was increasingly difficult to be like that. On both sides of the racial fence, reason had been replaced by justification. Dyson’s acceptance of Michael’s actions was a case in point. They had often tried to work out where it would all end. They never could. The issue was too big and too complicated.

  Michael and Dyson repaired the fence before driving back to camp to file a report. The two men parted company after that, Dyson heading for the African compound, Michael to his room in the staff quarters.

  Tired and frustrated, Michael stripped off his clothes and threw them on the floor. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he went to the ablution block and took a long, cold shower. Dripping wet, he returned to his room, stopping to collect a Lion beer from the refrigerator in the staff dining room. Drinking straight from the bottle, Michael sat on the bed and picked up his shirt, fishing out the crumpled letter. He opened it, anticipating the usual rush of nostalgia his mother’s words invariably caused.

  It was full of news from home – the farm had been granted a bigger sugar quota; cattle were fetching good prices; Aunt Anna was worried about Uncle Colin’s health; old Raj was sick again and his eldest son, Balram, was shouldering more and more responsibility; Wilson and Nandi’s second son, Jackson, was proving a bit of a handful. Claire made no mention of Joe. She never did. Her letters read as though he didn’t exist. But she was full of news about the twins and Gre
gor. She ended by mentioning that Tessa was getting very difficult to deal with.

  Michael folded the letter and dropped it on to the bed. ‘Dear God!’ he thought. ‘She’s acting as though it never happened.’

  Eight years younger than Michael, Tessa and Sally were now fourteen. Identical in appearance to such an extent that only those who saw them every day could tell them apart, their personalities were so contrasting they could have belonged to different species.

  It had been clear right from the start that Sally’s nature was gentle and Tessa’s hard. Where Sally cried for attention as a baby, Tessa screamed. As they grew into toddlers, Tessa dominated Sally, commandeered all the toys and, when she thought no-one was looking, was not above inflicting a furtive pinch or bite.

  With age, the differences between them became more marked. Sally asked, Tessa demanded. Sally gave, Tessa took. Sally relented or apologised easily, Tessa never did, even if she were patently in the wrong. Sally was honest, Tessa sneaky.

  The twins were six when Gregor arrived. Sally adored her little brother and spent hours with him reading and playing games. Tessa, when she wasn’t ignoring him, teased Gregor to the point where he would scream with frustration.

  Tessa entered puberty early. She was barely eleven when her breasts began to develop and body hair appeared. According to Claire’s letters, Sally was nearly fourteen before her body began to change.

  From the time his sisters were born, Michael had found it hard to get a handle on Tessa. It was clear that Gregor didn’t like her much. But Sally, who bore the brunt of her sister’s taunts, tricks and sometimes acts of downright cruelty, always tried to defend her. For her part, Tessa seemed to expect her twin’s loyalty, though she saw no reason to reciprocate.

  Tessa was the only one in the family who had any time for Joe. Despite his alcohol dependence, his mistresses and his violent temper, she seemed to be fascinated by him, often seeking out his company. When her father ranted and raved, Tessa would giggle delightedly. When he was drunk and talking aggressive rubbish, she hung on every word. She appeared drawn to his excessive, often irrational behaviour and, as she grew older, it was Joe she tried to emulate despite it being obvious that her father was generally regarded as a complete social outcast.