“Brava,” Luke said. “Never run from a cat.”
I was pretty sure that bit of wisdom was meant for me.
“We’re always on guard for animals that wander into the tents,” he continued, glancing my way.
I felt a wave of affection for him—and all of them, as it dawned on me that the stories and banter were directed mostly at me, a fresh audience. I was enjoying myself very much, and my enjoyment seemed to please them. Grinning, I took a sip from my glass. Chiddy had been right about the pleasant feeling.
Jackson told about a long-departed guide who had thrown scraps and bones from a barbecue into a ditch behind Jackson’s tent. Before long, a pack of snarling, cackling hyenas had shown up for the feast.
“Did they keep you awake?” I asked. Maybe I wasn’t the only one disturbed at night by animal sounds.
“Until dawn. But I must say, the hyenas did a thorough job of cleaning up.”
Chiddy dipped his head toward Jackson. “See how good-natured he is? Our Jackson is an excellent man—for a soutpiel.”
Hoots of laughter got my attention. “Soot pill?”
Jackson explained, “Afrikaans for ‘salt penis.’ One foot in Africa, one in the UK.” He puffed air. “I’m supposed to be insulted.”
“It is a terrible insult,” Kiki said in a mild voice, pouring a little more liqueur into Chiddy’s glass. “He really should slap you.”
“I would never insult my dear friend Jackson. He is a fine, fine man—for a soutpiel.”
More hoots told me that insults were part of the fun.
“We haven’t asked about your drive, Chiddy,” Kiki said. “Was the mud a problem this time?”
“No, no, not mud. This time a Cape buffalo gave me a fright. I came upon an old male that was feeling quite unrelaxed.” He took a sip from his glass while we waited to hear more. “I had parked and gotten out to kick a tire.”
“That means ‘take a leak,’” Luke interjected, looking in my direction. “Women say, ‘pick a flower.’”
I nodded, feeling a little dizzy.
“And I was kicking the tire when I saw the buffalo about as far from me as that tree.” Chiddy gestured with his head. “The monster hoofed the ground as if to say, ‘See me grind this dirt into more dirt? This is what I’m going to do to you.’”
“What did you do?” Kiki asked.
“I ran for the truck, quick as a bee.”
The others looked amused, but I needed a moment to put together the image of Chiddy and “quick as a bee.” It came to me that I might be drunk. Had someone poured me a refill? I had been careful to sip the Amarula slowly, but when I peered into my glass, I found it empty.
Teaspoon must have noticed me eyeballing the tumbler like a telescope. I don’t know what else he noticed, but he got up and said, “Let’s go, Bones. It’s getting late.”
I would have liked to stay by the fire and listen to more stories, but I did not want to walk back to Teaspoon’s tent alone in the dark. So I got to my feet, feeling quite unstable. The earth I relied on to be solid and stationary rocked beneath my boots. Walking proved tricky. With my back as straight as a plum line (or so I thought), I faked sobriety by taking abnormally careful, measured steps. I was pretty sure all eyes were on me as I tried to forge a dignified exit. Of course, I fooled no one. For what seemed a very long distance, I swayed and slewed behind Teaspoon’s wavering back. I must have made it all the way to the tent and my bed because that was where I ended up.
14
I OPENED MY EYES TO SEARING light. Sunshine burned through the window. My headache was a warthog in a snare, kicking and tusking against my temples. The inside of my mouth felt like the hide of an old goat and tasted worse. It took me a minute to sort out who had made me eat the remains of dead vultures. Just thinking the word “Amarula” made bile rise in my throat.
Teaspoon was long gone. At least that’s how it looked when I managed to sit up and peer through the narrow slits of my eyelids. My vision was in ruins. The other bed appeared neat. Teaspoon’s sweat clothes were folded on the shelf. Something crackled. I looked down to discover a note pinned to my shirt, the one I had worn yesterday.
Good day, Bones. I am sorry if you do not feel well. You have learned a lesson about Amarula, yes? I left you a present. Chiddy.
A pair of dark glasses sat on the table next to my bed. I couldn’t believe I had slept through Chiddy’s departure—and way past the hour Teaspoon and I usually got up. I put on the glasses and crept out of the tent. To my relief, I encountered no one on the way to the shower except a tiny elephant shrew that dashed across the path and into a hole. I wanted to crawl in with it. Besides feeling embarrassed beyond measure, I suspected I couldn’t manage a simple “Good morning” without causing more havoc inside my skull.
The cold water hit my skin like a spray of gravel. I emerged from the shower battered but awake, head pounding. Jaleen had left my other set of clothes, laundered and folded, in a basket outside Teaspoon’s tent. I put them on. In the tiny mirror above the washstand, my face looked shrunken, the hue of algae in a swamp. Luke’s hat and Chiddy’s glasses gave me the appearance of a person wanting to hide, which I was.
In the pavilion I found another note, this time from Teaspoon. Would anyone actually speak to me today? A large camp box like the one I had seen in Luke’s vehicle anchored the paper against the breeze. Bones: Here is your brunch. Coffee’s in the thermos. I hope you feel better. T.
I had slept through breakfast and lunch? The news came as a shock. Yet it was true; the sun had passed its summit. Afternoon heat bore down. I blinked with the dawning realization that I had slept through half the day. I must have been blotto out of my mind. Did everyone in camp know? Even Jackson Quinn?
A severe tribunal set up court in my mind. I tried but could not remember how the previous night had ended. My last recollection was a story about Chiddy and a bee. The thought that I might have acted sloppy and out of control in the company of people I admired so much mortified me. It made me even sicker to think I might have lost their trust and respect. I sank on a chair and cradled my throbbing head in my hands.
A shaft of sunlight angled in to spotlight the unfinished bar. Through the dark glasses I squinted at my work. Even in their rough state, the long boards pegged together without a nail in sight formed a handsome focal point that transformed one end of the pavilion. I inhaled the familiar scent of fresh-cut wood, absently fingering the lucky bean seed bracelet that never left my wrist. For luck in love and work.
Even as my head pounded and my stomach churned, I registered a tick of hope. Maybe diligent effort could save me. I had always found respite in the calming rhythms of sanding, staining, sealing, and lacquering. Finishing the bar well wouldn’t erase the humiliating mistake of drinking too much. But if I produced a beautiful result in spite of my sorry condition, maybe I could redeem myself in the eyes of Jackson Quinn and the others. I felt it was my only chance.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I opened the camp box. Food first. Teaspoon had packed thick slices of ham and cheese, quartered tomatoes, an apple, and a buttered baguette. I made myself chew and swallow everything. A bottle of water and two cups of strong, sugared coffee helped sluice it all down. My thirst was a force unto itself, unstoppable. I flashed on the image of my father pumping water after a night at the tavern. So this is how it feels.
Overfull and quietly belching, I made my way to the van. The finishing materials from Stash’s shop sat in the back: sander, stain, sealer, wood-grain filler, and several cans of high-quality lacquer. I silently thanked the hot, desiccating breeze that played on my bare arms and legs, favorable conditions for drying the coatings between each application. The circulating air would also minimize the fumes’ potential to abuse my already trashed and throbbing head. I intended to sand, lacquer, sand again, and buff every square inch of mahogany as many times as it took to mak
e the bar shine like a jewel.
During several trips back and forth between the van and the pavilion, I encountered no one. A lizard scooted across my path. A golden-tailed woodpecker tapped on a nearby tree. The human residents of Motembo were nowhere to be seen. Solitude suited my current, fragile state, yet what did it mean? Where was everybody?
I took a deep, steadying breath and tried to focus on the job at hand. After I finished assembling all the necessary supplies, I took stock of my workspace. Motembo was an orderly place, with prescribed ways of preparing guest quarters, setting tables, and serving food. In general I was a neat and orderly person. But my current display of tidiness out-tidied all the usual standards. Overcompensation for my woozy, unstable state felt entirely appropriate, a matter of control. An observer might have concluded that strict laws of geometry ruled a carpenter’s alignment of pots, brushes, and tools. Was an inspector due?
With my materials lined up in careful rows, I plugged the sander into the generator behind the bar and turned it on. Although I was grateful for the gift of electricity, the noise from the machine vibrated inside my skull like a swarm of hornets. A few small birds shot into the air. I tilted my head for a look at the thatched ceiling but did not see the resident boomslang. Like every human being in camp, the animals were deserting me too. I felt alone, sick, too pathetic for words.
I had been at work for some time, maintaining an impeccable workspace and making decent progress, when I noticed two boots standing next to me. They belonged to Jackson Quinn.
“Don’t stop, Bones. We can talk while you work.”
I swallowed. My tongue felt fat and useless, stuck to the roof of my mouth. I remained on my knees and tried to focus on the brush in my hand. My palm was damp against the wooden handle. Chiddy’s dark glasses sat on the floor. I wasn’t ready to part with Luke’s sheltering hat.
“I’m glad to see you working. Everyone in camp feels a bit woolly-headed today.” He paused, waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, he added, “Kiki said to tell you she’s sorry for overserving you. Amarula can sneak up on a person.”
An apology, to me? I wasn’t sure I heard right. I didn’t know how to reply, so I shrugged, glancing at him. The underarms of my freshly laundered shirt felt wet with sickly sweat.
He turned his gaze upward. “Teaspoon said you spotted the boomslang.”
“Yes.”
“You know you’re the first visitor to see it.”
I nodded. “I promised not to tell anyone.”
This brought a smile to his lips. “Luke was impressed by your spotting abilities too. He told me you were knowledgeable in the bush—and helpful.”
The conversation was not what I had expected. “Thank you. I liked driving with him to find the leopard.” I hesitated, unsure of my role. “I hope the cubs are okay.”
“They are as far as we know. We won’t get a reliable count until the litter comes out from hiding. Or, if we’re lucky, we might see the mother moving the cubs to a new location.”
“She was beautiful. The first leopard I’ve seen up close.”
He fell silent for a moment. I kept my head down, working.
“Do you like it here, Bones? At Motembo?”
An odd question, I thought. Was he asking in a general way, trying to be nice? Or was he leading up to a reminder about correct behavior in camp?
“Well, yes,” I answered, wary, looking up.
“I’d like to suggest something for you to think about.”
Giving up alcohol? Buying an alarm clock? I waited.
“Would you consider becoming a guide? A safari guide like Luke and Newsom?”
My face froze in a vacant expression that must have made him think twice about what he had suggested. “Me?” I finally said. Amarula had cudgeled my brain.
“Yes, you.”
The string of arguments that followed sounded preplanned, as though he had given them a lot of thought. As I gradually came to my senses, I registered an intense, flattering, almost unprecedented interest in me and my future. In one remarkable speech that I will never forget, Jackson gave me accolades, guidance, and an offer I could not refuse.
“You already have your secondary school certificate and a driver’s license. You’re an experienced hunter. With a little training, you could both pass your four-by-four vehicle test and obtain the required firearms license. You’re smart and a hard worker too. A few months of dedicated self-study would ready you for the Level One Guide Certification Exam. Six more months of on-job training, which you could complete here at Motembo, would qualify you for a Level Two Certificate, the same as Luke’s. Newsom wants to cut back a little, spend more time with his grandchildren. Soon we’ll have a full-time opening for you.”
“Here?”
“Of course, your carpentry skills would be very welcome in camp too.”
I put down the brush and rose to my feet. My brain felt sluggish, but my heart was beating fast. I took a breath and hoped I would be able to put together an intelligent sentence. “I would like to be a safari guide.”
The declaration felt bold on my lips, revelatory. It was an utterly true admission I had never before put into words, even though I had lived in awe of safari guides for as long as I could remember. Ruby of Ruby’s Amazing Safaris dwelled in a world so far from my own life and circumstances that the idea of emulating her or any guide had never occurred to me—that is, not until Jackson laid out a reasonable path I knew I could follow. Now, all at once, my future seemed obvious, preordained, enlarged far beyond the well-trodden paths of my village and the four familiar walls of my uncle’s workshop.
“But I will have to ask my uncle. He might not want me to leave the shop.”
Jackson nodded. “Yes, of course you must ask him. In the meantime, I’ll give you a Level One syllabus and the study materials it covers. They’ll help you understand the learning required and the commitment you must make.” He turned to go. Over his shoulder he added, “I hope you feel better.”
* * *
I drove home from Motembo with my mind so far from the journey itself that afterward I hardly remembered the route I had taken. Instead of Chiddy’s map, the Level One syllabus, workbooks, manuals, and logbooks sat on the seat beside me, drawing my eyes away from the windscreen with precarious regularity. I had already memorized the syllabus by reading the pages over and over in the light of a lantern on my last night in camp.
I had always assumed guides were well informed, but I had never guessed the range of subjects they needed to know—for starters, geology, ecology, climatology, astronomy, biomes, botany, taxonomy, conservation management, local culture and history, lodge and game drive management, vehicle rescue and maintenance, and first aid. These were just a warm-up to the core curriculum: learning the life cycle, habits, and characteristics of hundreds of species of animals and plants, as well as how to locate, spot, and identify each one. With every line I read, my respect for safari guides grew. Not even my school principal, Mr. Kitwick, knew so many things.
Jackson had assured me that I could return the study materials if I decided not to go forward. But he must have known that turning my back on such an opportunity would be unthinkable, no matter what my uncle said. Among the materials Jackson had given me, I discovered a receipt that revealed he had already paid to register me as a self-studying guide candidate. That brought a smile to my face. In Jackson’s mind, there had been no doubt.
Now, driving home, wearing Chiddy’s dark glasses and Luke’s canvas hat, I tapped a cheerful rhythm on the steering wheel. Sunlight silvered the hood of the van. The open bush, scene of my future career, felt benign and welcoming. From time to time, I tested myself by casting a keen and practiced eye on a plant or animal. Already I knew the names of the trees I saw and most of the birds. A pair of antelopes with white circles on their hindquarters darted away from the sound of the engine: wa
terbucks.
My hangover had finally vanished. I was uncommonly grateful to feel normal. During casual conversations following my regrettable night at the campfire, I had learned that both Luke and Kiki had also slept late the next morning.
“I was in ribbons,” Kiki confided.
“Hounded by the black dog,” Luke said.
I suspected the condition wasn’t entirely new to either of them. For me, one visit to the punishing aftermath of inebriation was more than enough. I doubted I would overindulge again.
The bar in the pavilion had turned out as well as I had hoped. My workmanship had drawn praise from everyone, including Nate, the cook, who christened the shining masterpiece by smashing a glass of sparkling wine against it. Jagged shards and a shower of grande cuvée brut were no match for five glossy coats of clear, hand-buffed lacquer. I felt confident that the lustrous finish I had labored over for days would stand up to anything—spilled drinks, crashing objects, even marauding baboons.
In less than a year, if I worked hard and learned fast, carpentry would become an interesting sideline to my real profession. I couldn’t wait to tell Mima the news and describe the rosy-hued future I envisioned for the two of us, living and working together at Motembo. Of course, she could work in camp too, at almost any job she wanted. During our farewell conversation, Jackson had assured me of that. I told him Mima was even more industrious than I was and smart too. We would do her parents one better and not just honeymoon on safari, but start our life together in the welcoming embrace of a premier, world-class camp, a camp that wanted us to stay.
I turned over in my mind how others would react. Hannie, my sweet little sister who loved Ruby’s calendars as much as I did, would no doubt light up at the prospect of having a guide for a brother. How Baba and Zola were going to take the news, I couldn’t predict. Those two had disappointed me so thoroughly that I almost didn’t care how they might react. I intended to cut myself loose from their opinions, or at least not try to change them. My world was expanding far beyond their influence. In return, I would try to look the other way when they did exactly as they pleased, without regard for common sense or my objections. “Give her some space,” Baba had advised. He was about to see just how much space I could give.
The Story of Bones Page 16