But once the magnitude of the Motembo order had come into focus, Stash and I had shared more than a moment of doubt about our ability to fill it. Our preferred practice of creating one piece at a time fostered excellent craftsmanship, but the method would take far too long for this project. The question of increasing efficiency without affecting quality had been asked—and answered with varying degrees of success—many times before. With some reluctance yet seeing no other way, we decided to cut every part needed for like items—say, the wardrobes—and then assemble and finish all six at once.
“Mass production,” Stash whispered. “Interchangeable parts. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Don’t worry,” I whispered back. “No one will ask.”
No one would even notice because we used a variety of wood types and grains. We fashioned different drawer pulls, hooks, and knobs for each set of furniture. The finished suites were compatible in style, measurements, and high-end sensibility. But no two ended up the same. Every piece we built for Motembo turned out as interesting, functional, and unique as any we had ever made.
First, we cut and assembled all six wardrobes, then all the desks, and then the bedside tables. We gave these items priority because their rectangular shapes lined up neatly for storage at the back of Chiddy’s truck. The coffee tables came next. Round, they stacked in pairs, top against top. Then we built and finished the chairs: six desk chairs and six larger ones designed to accommodate cushions. Last were the king-size beds and their canopy frames. These we assembled, finished, inspected, and took apart for reassembly in the new guest tents at Motembo.
On the afternoon I slid the last bed rail into Chiddy’s fully loaded truck, Chiddy appeared as happy as I was. He planned to leave for Motembo early the next morning.
“I will be there in two days,” he said, grinning. “Two days until good company, an excellent dinner, and the lullaby of the snorting hippos.”
“And Amarula?”
He tipped back his head and laughed. The diamond stud in his ear twinkled as if plugged into the mood of its host. “If Jackson feels like celebrating, yes. And I guarantee, when he sees this shipment, so beautiful, every piece complete, he will feel like celebrating.” He closed the cargo door and twirled the dial on the heavy padlock. When he turned to face me again, the expression on his face had darkened. “Something about this is not quite right, Bonesy. Not quite right.” He rubbed his chin as though contemplating a weighty matter. “You are the one who should be celebrating, you and your uncle Stash.”
“Uncle Stash said he was celebrating by taking a nap.”
“Then you and I must celebrate together. We will go to Captain Biggie’s for your first taste of Amarula.”
I looked at him. “I’m not eighteen, you know.”
“Oh, but you will be very soon, yes? Captain Biggie has a broad, broad mind about these matters.” As he said this, Chiddy wrapped his weighty arm around my shoulders and steered us in the direction of the tavern. His innate optimism about everything, including the breaking of rules, endeared him to me as much as his bubbling awareness of his own charm.
“Chiddy, will you visit me in reform school?”
“Reform school? Dear Bonesy. You are too old for reform school. You will go straight to the big house. Of course I will visit you there.” He said this with a straight face. “But prison will not be necessary because your celebratory drink will take place under the tutelage of a wise elder—me.”
We were halfway to Captain Biggie’s when I blurted, “My father drinks too much. Once he starts, he can’t quit.”
Chiddy stopped abruptly and turned to face me. His voice softened. “I am sorry to hear it. This will not happen to you. Learning to drink is like learning to drive. First, the learner’s permit. You drink only under supervision—to know the feel of things, how to handle yourself. In this way, you learn how and when to stop.”
“What if I can’t stop?”
“Then no license. You must never drink again.”
I was thinking this over when we stepped across the threshold of Captain Biggie’s. After our walk in the sunshine, my eyes took a moment to adjust. The tavern was long and narrow, like a cave that darkened at the far end. The bar ran along the left wall. Round mats advertising the Beer of Good Cheer dotted the long, polished surface. Behind the bar an old, foxed mirror reflected a string of twinkling lights and the imposing backside of Captain Biggie himself.
He was a big-boned, broad-shouldered man, like a statue missing its pedestal. I had glimpsed the tavern owner a few times in the village, never up close. His face was as wide as a cake plate, but his sparkly little eyes could have fit in the head of a shrew. He wore a white tunic and several long strings of dark wooden beads that clacked against the bar when he leaned in to greet us.
“Hello, Chiddy. I see you brought a friend.” The smile on Captain Biggie’s face did not indicate the slightest concern about my age. Chiddy settled his great bottom on a barstool that looked insufficient for the load. When Chiddy didn’t crash to the floor, I took the stool next to him.
“Yes, this is Bonesy, an excellent carpenter. He’s Stash’s nephew.”
“Ah, the nephew. I’ve met Zola, the niece.” Captain Biggie hesitated before he spoke again, glancing toward the back of the room. Then his big smile returned. “Welcome, Bonesy, friend of Chiddy, nephew of Stash. You are also a friend of mine. What can I get for you?”
“One Amarula,” Chiddy said. “We will share.”
Zola had been in Captain Biggie’s Tavern? That news was just beginning to sink in when I got another surprise. The small glass Captain Biggie set in front of Chiddy held a liquid resembling chocolate milk.
“The cream in Amarula makes the drink delicious and also treacherous,” Chiddy explained. “You do not feel the heat of the spirits in your throat. So you must take a very small sip and wait for the pleasant feeling.”
I tipped the glass to my lips, thinking of elephants. The liquid tasted fiery and creamy-rich at the same time. I set the glass down on the bar in front of Chiddy and waited for the pleasant feeling.
“Do you like it?”
“I think so.” My first taste of alcohol had been the tiniest of sips. “But I think I feel pleasant because Stash and I finished the furniture for Motembo.” Then I overcame a fit of shyness to add, “And because you are my wise friend.”
He took this in with the seriousness that I had come to trust, with no hint of mockery or condescension. “These are excellent lessons for a drinker with a learner’s permit. The drink is not the most important thing.” He raised the glass. “Congratulations, Bonesy. To you and Stash and your fine, fine craftsmanship.” He took a sip slightly larger than the one he had recommended. “And to friends. Much better than drinking alone.”
With that, he drained the glass in one gulp. Fishing a couple of bills from his pocket, he winked at me and placed the money on the bar. “In four days’ time I will return with your payment and all the latest news from camp.” He heaved his great weight off the stool. “Now, my friend, I must leave you to prepare for my trip. We have enjoyed our drink, and you are sober and happy, yes?”
I felt the same as I always did, so I nodded.
“Good, good. I know you will find your own way home.” With a wave at Captain Biggie, he headed out the door.
I was trailing after him when I glanced toward the rear of the tavern. By then my vision had grown accustomed to the dim interior. I blinked. My father was sitting at a rear table with two men I didn’t know.
During the second I hesitated—go or stay?—Baba looked up and saw me. A slight rise of his eyebrows indicated surprise. Chiddy had already left, so I decided to stay and explain to my father why I was there. As I approached the table, one of the men got up and went out through the back door. The other man turned to look at me.
“Hi,” I managed, clearing my throat. “Uncle S
tash and I finished the furniture for the safari camp, all of it.” The words came out in a rush. “Chiddy, the driver, brought me here to celebrate.”
“I see. Congratulations,” Baba said in a neutral voice. He indicated an empty chair. “Have a seat.”
The other man held out his hand. “I’m Marks.”
My palm felt small in his grip. He had dark, gentle eyes and a chin like an anvil. Beneath the strong planes of his face was a softness that warmed me to him right away. He appeared alert, intelligent, and as fit as a boxer in a trim khaki shirt. I guessed he was only a few years older than me.
“I’m Bonesy,” I replied.
“Your dad has told me about you. You’re a carpenter, right?”
I nodded. No glassware sat on the table. No food. I was pretty sure I knew what Marks did for a living.
“Carpentry is good, steady work,” he said. “He’s proud of you, you know.”
Like an idiot, I nodded again. My voice had abandoned me. I pictured the elephant slaughter Baba and I had seen, and felt an unpleasant sensation, not yet a fully formed thought. “Your work is steady too,” I said, almost in a whisper.
Marks and my father exchanged a look. “He knows I help against poachers,” Baba said quietly.
Marks turned to me. “Yes. I’m a wildlife ranger. Protecting the animals and their habitat is a full-time job.”
“Are there more dead elephants?” The words felt bulky in my mouth. “Did you find some?”
Again Marks looked at Baba, who nodded and said, “If he’s old enough to drink in a tavern, he’s old enough to hear it.” His tone held a reprimand I didn’t miss.
Marks’s voice came out flat, a dirge. “A large breeding herd south of the village. Twelve females and their young. The water hole was poisoned.” His lips formed a knot. He looked away, as if overcome by what he had seen.
“Then they poisoned the carcasses,” Baba continued, keeping his eyes steady on me as if testing my fortitude—my fitness to sit in a tavern among grown men.
I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. “The ivory poachers poisoned the dead elephants?”
He nodded. “To kill vultures so they won’t give away the location of the next slaughter.” He paused to let that news settle. “You know how quickly vultures can find a carcass—thirty minutes or less. Poachers need longer than that to carve out a single pair of tusks. Mutilating a herd can take all day.”
The bloody carnage Baba and I had witnessed swam into my mind, a horrible day’s work for some sick soul. I remembered that Baba had spotted vultures over the area the day before we got there. I too had noticed vultures, the ones waiting in the trees near the dead animals.
“We don’t have the manpower to track down every kettle,” Marks said, anticipating my comment. “But following vultures has been a successful strategy, resulting in more than one arrest.” He eyed me. “A kettle is a swarm of vultures in flight.”
I knew that, so I nodded.
Marks leaned closer, looking intent. I felt the weight of his words even before he said them. “The poison they use is a cheap pesticide: carbofuran or aldicarb. Readily available, quieter than guns. Of course, all the other animals that come to drink at the water hole or feed on the poisoned carcasses die too, not just the vultures. We’ve found dead lions, dead leopards, dead hyenas, dead wild dogs, dead birds by the dozen. An atrocious loss of life.”
I might have been old enough to hear this news, but I was unprepared to receive it. The pleasant feeling I’d had at the bar with Chiddy vanished. The words, “dead … dead … dead … dead … dead,” struck me like a beating. I was proud Marks had spoken to me seriously, like an adult. But I felt a constriction in my chest and the heat of a rising anger that found nothing to grip. I looked from Marks to my father and back again, waiting for reassurance that never came.
* * *
Stash and I took off the next four days while we waited for Chiddy to return from Motembo. Although what I had learned about the poisoned animals weighed heavily on my mind, I told no one. Even beyond the fact that Baba trusted me not to reveal his involvement with rangers, the criminals who slaughtered elephants seemed too dangerous, too ruthless and wicked to discuss with anyone, as though the mere mention of them would bring bloody retribution. I tucked the news of fresh slaughter into a deep, dark recess of my mind.
Marks became a familiar presence in the village. He had been around all along, of course, but now that we had met and shared something terrible, I felt a kinship that flooded me with pride. I was heartened to know that a man like him had dedicated his life to saving the animals I loved too. Each time I passed him in the street, he had a smile and a friendly word. He told me about individual elephants he had seen in the wild and about the herds he observed and protected. He asked how I was and what I was up to. I suspected he already knew the answers from talking to Baba, but I didn’t mind because I relished his attention.
Rangers were often away at work in the bush, of course. But when Marks failed to show up at all one day, my stomach pitched with worry. I knew too well that Africa could give, and Africa could snatch away. The added threat of vicious, stop-at-nothing ivory poachers raised the survival stakes for rangers even higher. I found myself repeatedly scanning the street for a glimpse of him and searching Baba’s face for signs of calamity. To ask my father about the ranger seemed a breach of our code, so I worried in silence and tried to think about other things.
Fortunately, during my brief vacation from the shop I found plenty to divert me. First, I volunteered to build a new display area in the grocery store for Mrs. Swale. She was expanding her inventory to include products for home maintenance and gardening. “But we don’t want the mops and mousetraps next to the milk,” she said, looking pleased by the sound of her words. “What would you think about a separate section in back?”
She asked this of no one in particular while I was in the store with Mima. Although I felt proud that she might have wanted my opinion, I waited for Mima to respond.
“Back here?” Mima asked, indicating an old cupboard currently in use for storage. “I don’t see how tall things like mops and brooms would fit.”
I eyed the space, taking mental measurements. I cleared my throat. “If you can do without the cupboard, you could remove that altogether. Then you could start over with pegboard and a column of adjustable shelves attached to the wall—about a day’s work for a carpenter. Like me.”
I kept my face neutral until Mima cracked up, laughing. “A carpenter like you is exactly what we need.”
Mrs. Swale wouldn’t have looked happier if I had suggested building her a castle. “Would you do it? Of course, I’ll pay you. Thank you, Bonesy.”
A job that should have taken a day or two lengthened into three because Mrs. Swale brought the twins, Donovan and Drew, to help. Eleven years old, the boys found every tool I brought worthy of inspection and testing. I let them fire nails into plywood and showed them how to saw up scraps of trim. I narrated my own work as I went, thinking of Uncle Stash while repeating at every opportunity, “Measure twice, cut once.”
By the second day, I was calling the boys “the Dees” and making them giggle. “Well, look who’s here—the delightful, dexterous, discerning Dees. Or could you be the dastardly, duplicitous, dirty Dees?”
“The dirty Dees!” they shouted in unison.
When I finished, Mrs. Swale wanted to pay extra for my attentions to Donovan and Drew. Since I had been happy to help and actually enjoyed the twins, I refused to accept more than the cost of the materials. Mima gave me a melting look and planted a chaste kiss on my cheek.
On my way out the door, Mrs. Swale met me with a basket of groceries. “It’s the least I can do, Bonesy. I’m so grateful. Thank you.”
The weighty basket held canned goods, packets of rice and beans, and on top, fresh greens and a hand of bananas. Thanks to my income from t
he workshop, my own household currently wanted for little in the way of groceries. But I accepted the gift gratefully. After I said my goodbyes, I carried the basket straight to Rotting House.
The Ovambos heckled and chased me, pecked on my shoes, and made such a ruckus that Granny sat up in her chair. Roop poked his head through the doorway, laughing as I dodged my way across the yard. Hyunk-hyunk-hyunk.
“My life is on the brink, and you laugh?” I said as I hurtled up the stairs. “This is for you and Granny.” I handed him the basket. “I hope you feel like a worm.”
“Hello, Bonesy.” Granny rocked and grinned. She must have just washed her hair because it smelled of Lifebuoy and was fluffed out like a cumulonimbus.
“What’s this?” Roop asked, fingering aside the leafy greens for a look underneath.
“From Swale’s, for building some shelves.” Before he could refuse, I said, “Let’s go fishing. If you skunk me, you can hand over your catch.”
When it came to fishing, Roop never needed a second invitation. While he put away the groceries and gathered gear for both of us, I sat on the porch with Granny. The Ovambos were giving themselves sand baths in the hot afternoon sun. One by one, they broke out in fits that resembled tribal dancing. Minor dust storms exploded across the yard.
While I watched the chickens, Granny watched me. She fingered the cord on her necklace, looking at me with moony, misty eyes. “You’re a good boy, Bonesy. A good boy.”
Mima, Mrs. Swale, and now this. I felt heady with popularity. My veins churned with the warmth that comes from being adored for good deeds. I put all thoughts of poachers and dead animals out of my mind and let myself fill with happiness, gratitude, and benevolence toward every living thing. Even the Ovambos took on a handsome air. How vigilant they were in patrolling the yard!
The Story of Bones Page 10