by Gill Lewis
To the thin green line:
The men and women rangers who risk their lives protecting wildlife and wild places for us all.
In the east of the Democratic Republic of Congo lie areas of forested wilderness that are home to the eastern lowland gorilla. Beneath the canopy, the forests support an extraordinary diversity of life, from rare plants to forest elephants. Yet, beneath the soil, they have the highest concentration of mineral resources found anywhere on earth; minerals that continue to fuel internal conflict and world greed.
These forests drive our global weather patterns. They regulate the air we breathe and the water we drink. They give life to those living on the forests’ edges and those who live thousands of miles away.
They are essential to us all.
And yet, they are at risk of being lost forever.
These forests are where this story begins. . . .
“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.”
John Muir (1838–1914)
PART ONE
then . . .
YOU ARE MINE, IMARA.
THE DAY THEY CUT YOU OPEN, I CLIMBED INSIDE.
KEEP ME SAFE IN HERE, AND I WILL MAKE YOU STRONG.
IF YOU LET ME OUT, THEY WILL SEE YOUR WEAKNESS AND YOU WILL DIE. YOU CANNOT LIVE WITH ME, YET YOU CANNOT SURVIVE WITHOUT ME.
YOU ARE MINE, IMARA.
YOU ARE THE DEVIL’S CHILD.
CHAPTER ONE
imara
It is time, Imara.
Imara left the shadows and stepped into the pool of moonlight, listening to the demon as he paced inside her mind.
It is time, Imara. The men are waiting for you. They are waiting for your power to protect them.
She knelt down and poured the contents of her water bottle into the ashes of last night’s fire, stirring with her fingers, working the mixture into a gritty paste.
All around her, the forest was dark and still, wrapped in silence. Nothing moved. High above in the canopy, a pale mist clung to the leaves. Thin tendrils of vapor hung in the air, as if the trees were holding their breath, waiting for the dawn.
The Black Mamba and his men were folded into the deep moon-shadows. Only the cold light catching the metal of their rifles told they were not of this place.
Come on, Imara, hissed the demon. They’re watching you.
Imara’s hands hovered over the ash paste and trembled.
Stupid girl. Don’t show your fear. You know what they’ll do if they see your fear.
Imara breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with the cool night air. She tried to block her mind from the purpose of her task. She hummed softly, trying to ignore the demon and scooped the ash paste into her hand.
Hurry, Imara. They want to see their spirit child.
She worked faster, scraping more wet ash from the middle of the fire, squeezing it in her fists, letting the water run out between her fingers. She began to smear the ash paste, covering the raised scar that cut her face in two. She traced its hard ragged surface from her forehead, across her cheek to her lower jaw. The scar had long since healed, sealing the demon deep inside, but its tightness pulled her mouth into a twisted scowl.
She could feel the ash mixture dry and harden like a shell. Next, she smeared the ash paste on her bare arms, painting long sinuous bodies of snakes from her shoulders to her wrists. As the ash dried, it glowed white in the moonlight, bright against her dark skin.
The Black Mamba stepped out from the trees. He was a big man, thick-necked, like a bull buffalo. His anger was unpredictable like one, too. He rolled up his sleeve and thrust his arm in front of Imara. Her eyes came to rest on the snake-bone amulet around his wrist, the snake from which the Black Mamba took his name. “Protect me, Imara,” he whispered.
Imara dipped her fingers into the ash and traced a snake along his forearm, curling the tail into a spiral. “It is done,” she said. “The spirits will look after you. No one can harm you now.”
The Black Mamba nodded and stood up. “Now safeguard my men.”
The men lined up to have their arms painted with her dark magic, but none of them dared look Imara in the eye. She was the Black Mamba’s Spirit Child. She talked with the devil and walked within the spirit world. The spirits protected her. She had been bitten by a black mamba and lived.
“Come,” said the Black Mamba. He held up his arm, the ash snake glowing bright in the darkness. “It is time to take back what is ours.”
Imara followed the Black Mamba and his men to the forest edge. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and gripped the barrel of her gun, the metal cold against her skin. She focused on the sounds of the waking forest, on the leaves rippling in a fresh breeze above her and the chorus of birds. She tried to control her breathing, slowing her breath so she could taste the damp, earthy air. She tried to ignore the demon kicking inside her chest.
But the demon would not be quiet.
Open your eyes, Imara.
The demon beat his fists against her chest. Thump . . . thump . . . thump.
Open your eyes, Imara! They are not like us. They are weak. They deserve to die.
Imara forced her eyes open and stared down to the village in the valley below. The sun had not yet risen above the mountains. Small fires flickered in the pale dawn light. Villagers moved between the huts, the reds and yellows of women’s skirts bright in the blue mist of early morning. The bleats of goats and the steady pounding of cassava carried up the hillside. Wood smoke drifted across the fields bringing the smell of roasting corn to the forest edge where Imara crouched, concealed in darkness.
She made a circle with her finger and thumb, and held it to her eye. She looked through to see the village, cupping it within her hand. She tried to hold the image, as if she could somehow protect it in her memory, protect the villagers from what was to come.
But it was a new day.
A new dawn.
On the eastern horizon, a crimson light was bleeding into the sky. The villagers below were unaware of the girl at the edge of the forest, the girl with a gun and necklace of bullets. They were unaware of the Black Mamba and his men beside her. Unaware many of them would not live to see the sun rising above the mountains.
CHAPTER TWO
imara
The Black Mamba rapped his fingers on his gun. “Are we being watched, Imara? Do they know we are here?”
Imara scanned the fields beyond for tell-tale glowing cigarette ends of men hiding out in the fields, ready for an ambush. But the fields were quiet and still.
“We have not been seen,” she said.
Even in the darkness, Imara could feel the Black Mamba’s presence. “There is no one guarding this village,” she said. “But see how fat the cattle are. These people have kinship with the land here. They won’t give it up easily.”
The Black Mamba breathed out slowly. “It is not their land. They stole it from us when they fled their homes in Rwanda. This is Congo soil. This is our land.”
Imara heard thirty rifles release their safety catches in agreement. She looked along the line of trees at the forest edge. The Black Mamba’s men were hidden in the shadows. Waiting. Invisible. Only the sour smell of their sweat gave them away.
“Come,” said the Black Mamba to his men. He touched the snake-bone amulet on his wrist. “Let us take back what is ours.” He stepped out from the shadows and paused. “Rat,” he called. “Where are you?” A wiry man with strands of hair braided like rats’ tails slunk out of the forest to stand beside him. “Rat, you stay with Imara. Let nothing harm our Spirit Child. She gives us our strength and keeps us safe. It is she who turns enemy bullets into rain.”
Imara sank back farther into the shadows and watched the Black Mamba’s men spread out acro
ss the fields. They moved silently down through the rows of corn.
The demon beat his fists, drumming out a war song, faster and faster.
Rat was tense beside her, his finger twitching on the trigger of his gun, his eyes focused on the valley. Imara could hear the grinding of his teeth on the wad of dagga in his mouth. She could see the wildness in his eyes as it infused his mind.
In the valley, a dog barked, breaking the silence.
Imara pushed her fingers in her ears to block out the coming battle. She wanted to run and run, and be anywhere but here. But there was nowhere to run. The Mambas would only track her down.
Rat’s staccato laughter rang out with the first round of gunfire. “Watch them run, Imara. They look so funny when they run. See their feet flying high up in the air. Look at the mamas with children clinging to them like baboon babies.”
Imara squinted through half-closed eyes. She saw figures running out across the fields and others strewn like rags across the ground. She saw the orange flare of shots where the Black Mamba’s men hunted the villagers down. A boy’s high-pitched cry was silenced by gunfire. Imara turned her face into the forest. She hated to hear the children die.
Rat spat on the ground beside her. “Don’t pity the cubs, Imara. They become the lions that will hunt you down.”
Imara watched him from the shadows. He was fueled with excitement, jogging on the spot. She knew he wanted to be fighting in the valley, taking his share of the food. Taking his share of the glory.
He glanced in her direction, avoiding her eyes. “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t show yourself until I return.” He slung his rifle across his shoulder and headed off to join the battle.
Imara curled herself into a ball. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t part of this nightmare, but the demon twisted Imara’s stomach. Don’t pretend you aren’t hungry, Imara. You haven’t eaten for days. The men will return with food, much food. Didn’t you hear the Black Mamba? This is our land. Our food. We are taking back what is ours.
The demon laughed wildly as the first hut burst into flames, the straw roof sending up a plume of thick smoke. Imara could see the silhouettes of the Black Mamba and his men heading back toward the forest. They were laden with sacks. Two men each carried a live goat across their shoulders. At the end of the line of men walked three boys, pushed forward by Rat.
The Black Mamba reached the forest edge puffing and sweating. The veins on his neck stood out like cords of rope. “You were right,” he said to Imara. “They tried to fight us. We lost three of our men.” He wiped blood from the long blade of his panga on the grass. “So we have taken three of theirs.”
Imara watched the three boys stumble into the middle of the ring formed by the Black Mamba’s men. They were soot- and tear-stained. The acrid smell of smoke clung to their clothes.
The first boy was tall and gangly, with wide, staring eyes.
The Black Mamba faced him. “How old?”
The boy stared ahead, unable to form words inside his mouth. His cheeks sucked in and out. In and out. His eyes bulged wide open.
The Black Mamba held the boy’s cheeks tightly in one hand and laughed. “This is not a boy . . . it is a frog!” He turned to his men. “We have caught a frog!”
The Mambas laughed. They were in a good mood. Rat chewed on a roasted corn, still warm from one of the village fires.
The second boy was shorter, about Imara’s height. He had sharp, quick eyes.
“And you? How old are you?”
“Twelve,” said the boy.
“What is your name?”
“Dikembe.”
“Well, Dikembe, you are old enough to be a man. Can you fight?”
The boy nodded.
The Black Mamba pushed the handle of his panga toward Dikembe. “Would you kill him for us?” he said, pointing to the third boy. “Would you kill him?”
Dikembe nodded. He held the panga, although it shook uncontrollably in his hand.
The Black Mamba laughed and took back his panga. “And you,” he said, turning to the third boy. “What good are you to us?”
Rat pushed the boy to the ground. “This one is a Batwa. A pygmy.”
Imara watched the boy struggle back to his feet. He was small and skinny, no taller than the Black Mamba’s gun. At first she had thought he was a young child, but his face was that of an older boy.
The boy jutted his chin forward. “My name is Saka.”
The Black Mamba circled around the boy, coming to a stop in front of him. He bent down, their faces inches apart. “What is a pygmy doing in this village?”
“We should kill him now,” said Rat. He spat on the ground. “The pygmies are no better than animals.”
The Black Mamba scratched at the bristles of a beard on his chin and turned to Imara. “Let the Spirit Child decide.”
Imara turned toward the boys. She could see them staring at her scar and twisted face. Her eyes fixed on the small Batwa boy. He returned her gaze from big brown eyes. She didn’t see fear in him, but an acceptance of what was to come. She could feel the pain deep in her chest of the demon twisting her heart round and round and round.
Don’t pity him, Imara. Don’t give in to your weakness. Only the strong survive.
“Well?” said the Black Mamba. “What do the spirits say? Does the boy live or die?”
“Kill him,” insisted Rat. He shoved Saka in the chest. “You are stupid. Useless. An animal.”
Imara clenched her fists, digging her nails into her skin. She tried to block out the demon’s voice but it cried louder and louder into her ear.
The boy must die.
The boy must die.
The boy must die.
CHAPTER THREE
imara
Well, Imara? What do we do with him?”
The Black Mamba was waiting for his answer. He pushed his panga against the boy’s chest, the tip of the long blade pressing into his skin.
The small boy looked up at Imara with unblinking eyes. No one else dared look directly at her. All men feared her. She was the one who spoke with the devil. She had the power to curse a man’s soul. To look into her eyes was to see your own death, yet this boy dared. He stared as if he could see right inside her, forcing her to look away.
He will find your weakness, hissed the demon. The boy must die.
Gunfire broke through Imara’s thoughts and shattered the silence. In the valley below, the headlights of two trucks bumped across the dirt tracks. Orange flares lit the sky.
Rat pointed at the dark shadows of men making their way up the hillside. “Government troops,” he said. “They must have been waiting for us on the other side of the valley. Look, they outnumber us.”
“Traitors!” The Black Mamba swore beneath his breath. “Come, they won’t follow us into the forest.” He turned to Imara. “Protect the men.”
Imara carved a snake into the bark of the nearest tree, dark magic to ward people away. Rat stood beside her, pointing his rifle at the small boy, thirsty for a kill.
“No,” said Imara, pushing the barrel of Rat’s gun away.
Rat scowled. “Why? You don’t pity him, do you?”
“No,” spat Imara. “But he may be useful. Let him live for now. I will decide his fate later.”
The Black Mamba nodded. “Let’s go.”
Imara could feel Rat’s eyes burning into her.
The demon crawled in her ear. Be careful, Imara. Rat hates you. He’s jealous of your power over the Black Mamba. He wants to find a way to bring you down. Show him you don’t care for the boy.
Imara scowled and gave Saka a hard shove. “Walk,” she ordered. “Or I shoot.”
She followed the men into the forest, along the paths they had hacked through the undergrowth the night before. Rat and two other Mambas fired at the government troops from the safety of the trees, giving the Black Mamba and the rest of his men time to slip away.
Imara chewed on a piece of corn as she walked, sucking the last swe
etness out of the hard cob. The mud was soft and sticky beneath her feet. Her boots were soaked, the hard leather rubbing a new blister on her heel. Tiredness swept over her. She had marched through the previous night and it was unlikely she would sleep until they made camp in the evening. The men were tired too. All she could hear were their grunts and labored breathing as they made their way through the forest. They looked like exhausted men, not the feared Mambas.
Rumors of the Mambas told of men who could walk for days and nights without food or sleep. They could pass unseen through the forests. Invisible. Invincible. If one Mamba was killed, two more rose up to take his place. They had a secret weapon to protect them, too. Imara. She was their Spirit Child. She gave them their power.
Imara looked up at the sky to catch glimpses of the sun beyond the canopy of leaves. The Black Mamba was moving his men eastward through the lowlands toward the mountains. He had promised them the greatest prize, a land of plenty. A land to make them rich.
She glanced back at Saka, half wishing Rat had killed him sooner and got it over and done with. Surely the small boy wouldn’t be able to keep up with the march through the forest. Yet, every time Imara turned, she could see he kept close behind the frog-boy at a steady trot, his broad bare feet slapping on the mud.
Dikembe walked in front of the other two boys, his head down, keeping his distance from them. The frog-boy was the weakest. As the path climbed steeply upward, he slipped and slithered in the mud. He strained under the sack of plundered rice he was forced to carry. Imara watched the frog-boy stumble many times until he crumpled to his knees, unable to get up. His chest heaved with labored breath.
Rat kicked him. “Get up, Frog! Move!”
Saka dropped his sack to help him up.
“Leave him,” snapped Rat. “Frog does this on his own or not at all. We don’t waste time on the weak.”
Rat stood over the boy as he pulled himself up and hoisted the sack over his back. It was only as they were moving forward again that Imara noticed Saka had swapped his lighter load for Frog’s heavy sack. Rat yelled at Frog again and Imara heard the dull thwack of his rifle butt push Frog forward.