“The umbrella thorn belongs to what genus?”
“Acacia.”
“What survival tactic does this tree use?”
“It releases a chemical into the soil that prevents the germination of other seeds. This eliminates competition for space and water.”
He nodded. “Even trees can be territorial. What’s another name for the gray tree frog?”
“Foam nest frog, because the female uses her hind legs to whip up a protective froth that surrounds her eggs. The result is a foam nest the size of a melon that hangs from the tree.”
“Good. Male weaver birds go to what lengths to attract a female?”
“They weave complicated nests with fresh materials and advertise them with preening displays.”
“Not so different from us, eh?” He winked.
We went on like this for over an hour. A few questions stumped me, such as the Latin name of the weeping boer-bean, Schotia brachypetala, and the function of the syrinx, a fleshy membrane below a bird’s windpipe that vibrates to create birdsong. I must have looked crestfallen when I didn’t know the answers because Marks smiled and said, “Don’t worry. Those were to remind you there’s always more to learn.”
Then he moved back into more familiar territory. “What ungulate walks by moving both right legs and both left legs at the same time?”
“Giraffe.”
“Tell me two other interesting things about giraffes.”
“They’re most vulnerable to predators while drinking, splay-legged, at water’s edge. Bending down also subjects their brains to excessive blood pressure, partially counteracted by a network of capillaries that control blood flow. Not surprisingly, giraffes don’t drink very often. As a result, their urine is thick, like honey.” I took a breath. “Giraffes are the only ruminant with a gestation period of more than a year. Life span is about twenty-five years. Each individual eats roughly thirty-four kilos of deciduous foliage a day.” I could have said more, but I sat back, quite pleased with myself.
Marks gave me a severe look. “If you talk like that on a game drive, you’ll be thrown to the lions.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you sounded like a lecturer, something you never want to do. Point out one or two things of interest at a time. Answer questions clearly and briefly. Some people want to know more, others less. Watch to see what they’re looking at, and talk about that particular thing. Being alert to your guests’ level of engagement is an important part of guiding.”
I was mulling over that bit of wisdom when a man I recognized from the village rushed up to the table, his face a ball of sweat and worry. His worn clothes and muddy boots told me he worked outdoors, perhaps as a farmer. He snatched a look at me and then turned to Marks. “Another slaughter.”
“Where?” Marks was already on his feet.
“North about five kilometers. At least eight elephants dead.”
Marks shrugged into his jacket and gathered up the papers on the table. “How recent?”
“The carcasses were warm less than an hour ago. Lions are there.”
“I have to go, Bones. Good luck on the exam.”
He was speaking to me, but his attention had already gone elsewhere. As he headed for the door, he talked in an urgent voice on his long-range radio. I watched him and the other man hurry out and wished they had asked me to go too.
A few days later, I learned from Baba that the elephants hadn’t been shot. They had eaten pumpkins and watermelons poisoned with an agricultural pesticide.
“Poachers are trying quieter methods of killing,” he said, his face rigid. “Poisoned arrows, poisoned bait. This time they chose aldicarb, a pesticide farmers use to protect their crops against thrips, aphids, and spider mites.
“A concentrated version called Temik is a readily available rat poison. Less than a tablespoon full can kill an elephant.” He shook his head. “It’s also called ‘Two-Step’ because an animal that swallows it takes two steps and dies.”
It sickened me to picture elephants falling to their knees and keeling over in the throes of death by poisoning. Now Baba sat silent. He had gone outside himself for a moment or two, looking past me, perhaps imagining the horrible scene. I watched him, waiting.
“It was a breeding herd, including two pregnant females. After the poachers were done killing and sawing away the ivory, they left a message carved into the flesh of the matriarch.” He let out a long, weary breath, as if the whole bitter truth was simply too much. “‘Follow us and you’re next.’”
17
EVERYTHING WENT FASTER THEN, AS though life itself had sped up. One day spilled into the next at a dizzying rate. I drove myself to an official site in town to sit for the Level One Guide Certification Examination. Unlike the morning of my school exam, I made it to the site in good health and clean clothes, without working up a feverish sweat or vomiting on any passersby. The questions on the test were similar in focus and detail to the ones Marks had put to me. As I penciled in my answers, I silently thanked him for preparing me so well.
Three weeks later, I learned from Jackson Quinn that the results had been posted. I had passed with a nearly perfect score. Jackson congratulated me but didn’t seem particularly surprised. His confidence was like wind at my back. I felt my new career racing forward at a high, heady velocity. I wanted nothing more than to live up to Jackson’s expectations.
My on-job training at Motembo was to begin in ten days, coinciding with the arrival in camp of twelve foreign guests. Jackson said Teaspoon would arrange a trip for supplies and pick me up on the way back. In the meantime, I was to purchase good boots and a rugged pair of waterproof binoculars. My guide uniform and a new rifle would be waiting in camp.
Jackson couldn’t have imagined the thrill I took from the words “guide uniform.” How eagerly I welcomed the obligation to put on clean, regulation clothing and a good pair of boots every day. For the first time in my life, I would wear clothes that were correct, official, and worthy of respect.
I lightened up on the studying but did not abandon my manuals and books. Leading foreign visitors on safari, even as a trainee, seemed a daunting assignment. I read and reread the chapter titled “Creating a Meaningful Guided Nature Experience.” An even more sobering one, “Caring for the Safety of Tourists,” became dog-eared with review. The guide code of conduct, a lengthy list of principles, rules, and protocols, made my hair prickle—could I ever be such a paragon?—even as the words filled me with pride. I was entering a profession with high standards and clearly stated expectations. Tourists with little or no experience in the bush were going to rely on me to lead, enlighten, and protect them. I was fully tuned in to the responsibilities ahead.
Already, guide training had sharpened my view of the world and everything in it. On a fishing expedition with Roop, I found myself acutely aware of each plant and rock, of every insect that whined past or landed on my arm. Dragonflies lay eggs in fresh water. More than seven hundred dragonfly species exist in Africa. I wasn’t merely aware. I was continually searching my store of knowledge to identify and label, dredge up facts, and figure out when to speak and when to shut up.
I tried watching Roop to discover what interested him on the way to the river, but he mostly looked down, staring at the path in front of us. At water’s edge, he zeroed in on the ripples and currents like the angler he was, reading the shady depths to locate a catch. Even as he hunted for fish, my friend seemed unusually preoccupied. Something was on his mind, so I gave up guide practice and encouraged conversation.
“Nice day,” I tried. Lame, but it worked.
“Could have been.” He tossed in a line. “Zola and Skinner came to buy walkies.”
“Again?” Hearing my sister’s name paired with Skinner’s never failed to sting.
“Twice more. Granny likes Zola. Skinner, she can do without.”
I
shook my head. “What does Zola see in that loser?”
“I suppose he’s hot,” Roop said, glum.
I suppressed a laugh that rose unbidden. My friend looked too heartsick to be seen as funny. “Well, if you put aside Skinner’s deplorable character, morals, conduct, ethics, and personality, I suppose you could say he’s a fine specimen.”
That drew a smile. Or maybe it was the barbel tugging on Roop’s line. He pulled in the fish, silvery, whiskered, flopping. “Too small.” He unhooked it and threw it back. “I got my driver’s license.”
“Oh. Congratulations. Are you delivering chickens now?”
“Yep. And I took Granny’s key to the bank.” He paused, concentrating on a ripple in the water.
“Well?”
“You were right. Grandpa had a safe-deposit box.”
I didn’t know how to feel then. This could go sweet or sour. “Did you open it?”
“Nope. Only Grandpa could, with his signature. The lady at the bank, Mrs. Dubin, was nice, though. She said if Grandpa left a will, the person named could get access.”
“Did he leave a will?”
“Granny says he did. He wrote it himself, in front of her, leaving everything he owned to her. At the time, she thought this was sweet but unimportant because he didn’t own much. Now we’ve searched everywhere. We can’t find the paper.” Roop spent a moment reeling in another fish. This one was a keeper.
“What do you suppose he did with it?”
“Mrs. Dubin said he probably locked it in the box for safekeeping, a common mistake. He might even have rented the box for that very purpose.” Roop rolled his eyes. “It’s going to take a lawyer and probate court to give Granny access. If she gets it, she’ll probably find nothing more than the will that says she’s allowed to open the safe-deposit box and find the will.” He looked at me blankly for a second before we both erupted in laughter.
“Your grandpa got that backward.”
Roop nodded, wiping away a tear that wobbled from his eye. “He was a backward guy, you know? Not much schooling. After my parents died, he worried about their old age—his and Granny’s. He did what he could to take care of her.”
We fished a while longer without talking much, muted by thoughts of lost parents, old age, and my coming departure. I watched the current stir the river into whorls and thought our fishing spot must have changed little since our grandfathers were boys. The usual insects flitted above the surface. Shorebirds worked their stick legs along the moist bank. Blacksmith plover. Slaty egret. A few times Roop and I had met elephants coming to this spot to drink, but we hadn’t seen any in a while.
The thought of absent elephants cast an even greater pall over the sunny afternoon. In Grandpa Nobbs’s day, before habitats shrank and wildlife poaching surged, thousands of elephants must have roamed this plain and drunk in the river—tens of thousands. Now the pace of killing for ivory was unsustainable. Even as Marks and others risked their lives to save elephants, the species was headed to extinction.
I hadn’t seen Marks since the day I watched him rush from Captain Biggie’s to the scene of fresh slaughter. I could imagine his reaction to the threat carved in the side of the elephant carcass. Although I still feared for his safety, I understood the fury such a mutilation would ignite. If the poachers believed they could scare Marks with words, they were gravely mistaken.
* * *
I did what I could to ease my departure from Stash’s workshop. I handed in my key to the cash drawer and cut back my hours, pulling away little by little from involvement with the Dirty Dees. The twins had become proficient enough to assist Stash in building and finishing the dozen or more cradles on order. They took turns sawing flat boards to size while Stash cut heart-shaped dovetails and worked the corner joinery. The repetitive slab construction suited the boys’ skills, and with every cradle their confidence grew.
Stash, too, got to stretch his skills while working with Donovan and Drew. I watched him deliver a crisp lesson in determining the radius for rockers that wouldn’t tip. Then he claimed his students’ nearly undivided attention while demonstrating the use of the palm sander. The boys leaned in, shifting and scratching only a little while keeping their sights fixed on the tool. My uncle’s clear, patient explanation reminded me once again what a fine teacher he was.
A final project for me was to build and finish the bookcases Mr. Kitwick had ordered. On the day I delivered the shelves to the school, my former principal welcomed me with a broad smile and a knuckle-crushing handshake.
“I understand you’re called Bones now,” he said, pumping my forearm.
“Um, yes.”
“Have you heard the expression ‘make your bones’?”
I flexed my smashed fingers, thinking of fractures. “No. What does it mean?”
“To earn a respected position in a field of work. The phrase is a corruption of ‘establish your bona fides.’”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do. It’s fitting. You’ve already made your bones as a carpenter. I expect you’ll make your bones as a safari guide too.”
I liked it. Make my bones. “I’ll write that in the journal you gave me.”
“Using it, are you? Good.”
Since he had answered his own question, I decided to change the subject. “Mr. Kitwick, my uncle Stash is teaching carpentry to the Swale twins. He’s an excellent teacher, for little school-age kids.”
He held my look, and I knew he was thinking what I hoped he would think. “He taught you too, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question. “Interesting.”
I had planted the seed. Whether or not Stash wanted more kids to teach, I couldn’t say, but if Mr. Kitwick approached him, my uncle could decide for himself. I carried the bookshelves into the school and said goodbye. Mr. Kitwick stood in the doorway, watching me go. He was still there, standing like a sentinel in his shiny gray suit, when I drove the van around the corner and out of sight.
* * *
The rest of my guide training could keep me from home—and Mima—for six whole months. I hadn’t asked Jackson Quinn about time off. With two days’ travel each way, a decent visit would require almost a week’s absence. To make such a request even before I had started seemed foolish and ungrateful. I decided to assume nothing except a long separation from everyone in my village, including Mima.
The short time until I departed only sweetened my days with her. We picnicked by the river, went on long walks, and worked together in the grocery store. She took an encouraging interest in my training manuals and guidebooks and rode with me when I drove to town for new boots and binoculars. On the way there, she quizzed me, squinting at an open page as sunlight streamed through the window.
“An elephant’s tusks are actually …”
“Modified upper incisor teeth.”
“When do tusks stop growing?”
“They grow continuously during an elephant’s lifetime.”
“Too easy.” She flipped some pages. “Name the five golden rules of tracking.”
I steered the van around a dip in the road. “Place the first track you see between the sun and yourself. The best time to follow tracks is when the sun is low in the sky.”
“That’s one.”
“As you track, look ahead about five meters to see the bigger picture. Sometimes you can take a shortcut from one point to another.”
She nodded.
“Three, use your understanding of the animal’s behavior. Is it heading for water or a favorite grazing spot? This can help you pick up a lost trail. Four, mark the last track you see by circling it with a stick or your finger. Then, if you search ahead without results, you can come back and easily find your starting point. And five, use a cloverleaf pattern to look for a lost trail. Circle right, circle left, and circle straight ahead, gradually enlarging the loop.”
“You knew that without studying, didn’t you?” It was more of a statement than a question. She closed the book. “You’ll be an excellent guide.” She looked straight ahead, unreadable.
My throat tightened. “You haven’t said you’ll come … when I’ve finished training, I mean.”
“Six months is a long time, Bonesy.” Like Roop and Granny, she still called me Bonesy.
She must have seen my face fall because her voice went soft. “Of course, I want to be with you. Motembo sounds like a dream, for both of us. But you know I can’t leave until Mother and I figure out how she’s going to manage without me. In time, we’ll form a plan. We don’t have to decide everything right now.”
This wasn’t the answer I wanted. But it came as some consolation that Mima had once put the brakes on our lovemaking too. Not yet, Bonesy. Let’s wait. Everything between us has to be right. Memorable. A slow dance. That first slow dance had turned out just fine. Better than fine.
“So for now, we’ll just dance?”
“Dance?”
“A slow, memorable dance?”
Her lips hinted at a smile. “Slow and memorable works for me.”
During my last days at home, I spent long hours in the grocery store just to be near her. Together we restocked and straightened shelves, took inventory, and flattened cartons. Once again, I noted how well she and I functioned as a team. The observation stirred up thrilling images of us working side by side at Motembo, but I kept that nugget to myself.
While Mima and her mother were busy helping customers, I found plenty to do on my own. I made repairs, polished windows, and unloaded deliveries. It wasn’t lost on me that Mrs. Swale would have difficulty running the business alone.
That troubling notion weighed on me during my last afternoon in the store. I was restocking shelves I had rebuilt in the home and garden section, a task that did little to distract me from worrisome reflections. Lost in thought, I unpacked a case of Omo and lined up the containers in their usual place. When I knifed open a second box and folded back the corrugated flaps, I needed a moment to register what I saw—a moment that felt like slipping into icy water.
The Story of Bones Page 19