I tied a bandana over my nose and mouth, shouldering the canteen and my rifle. Dusty hardpan several meters ahead revealed a clear set of waffle-soled imprints. The prints indicated short strides with the left foot coming down hard. The right print was barely visible, evidence of a limp. If the rangers had wounded Skinner as the prints suggested, he wouldn’t be difficult to catch.
The image of Marks’s ravaged body swam before me, still unthinkable yet seared into my brain. I was painfully aware that I had failed a man I revered. I had failed my sister, my father, and every guide and ranger who lionized Marks’s dedication and courage. I had even failed my beloved elephants. I had failed them all because Skinner had gotten to Marks first.
The next few moments became my inauguration into the dark art of tracking a person I intended to kill. My earlier revulsion had vanished. I sprinted like a man possessed, past the heat and soot of the fire, past the choking smoke. In time I raced into a bright stretch of grassland the wind had seen fit to spare. Even as I outpaced the flames, my all-consuming purpose was to run down Skinner and end his sorry life.
My goal was a puny thing next to the mighty, unstoppable march of the sun. I emerged from the haze to encounter the long shadows and peachy sky of a day nearing sunset. Skinner had led me out of the fire and into the coming abyss of night. Even with the help of a full-faced moon and the blood spatters that had begun to mark the trail, tracking him after dark would be difficult, if not impossible. Let him live to see one more sunrise, I thought. Tonight we will rest.
I searched for a place to shelter before the sun cast its last fan of light. I harbored little doubt Skinner was doing the same. His wound would make him vulnerable to nocturnal predators, especially if he limped half-blind and bleeding through the patchy lunar glow. He had accomplished his purpose. He likely knew the rangers had given up chasing him, and he was unaware of my pursuit. The fire burned far away now, moving another direction. I didn’t credit Skinner with remorse for killing Marks or even depression over revelations of Zola’s treachery. But he must have felt immense fatigue after his long, hate-fueled trek across the bush. His lawless colleagues weren’t coming to his rescue, as far as I could tell. Chances were good he would pick a spot in a thicket or a copse of trees, tend his wound, and settle down until dawn.
The landscape offered little in the way of cushioning, no moss or springy groundcover to ease a night’s rest. The place I chose backed against a north-facing boulder that radiated the heat of the day. The warmth wouldn’t last long, but it was something. I was rationing the biltong. Even though I had eaten most of it, hunger sank its teeth in me. I remembered the raw, empty feeling from the lean years at home, a state I had hoped never to experience again.
As night closed in, the crushing reality of Marks’s death settled on me, a blanket of pain. Tears ponded in my eyes, spilled, and ran unchecked. I wept for Marks and Zola, for my shameful, forced desertion of the Americans, for the career I had probably ruined, for all the dead and mutilated elephants that criminals like Skinner had massacred, and for the terrified orphans and leaderless elephant relatives left behind. I tried and failed to think more positive thoughts, about Mima and Roop and my family at home. But those people did not belong in the dark scenario I was plotting now. I wanted no loved ones with me on the hunt to murder Skinner. I put them all in a closed compartment, a mental safe-deposit box where they would stay until this was finished.
The moon cast a phantasmal light. I anticipated a long, cold night poisoned with grief, anger, and hatred. Exhaustion trumped it all, though. I leaned back against the bed of rock with my rifle resting across my outstretched legs and closed my eyes. The next thing I heard was the predawn kook-coo-coo of a red-eyed dove.
I was on the move before the sun cleared the horizon. Skinner’s day-old footprints had lost their crisp edges, and the droplets of blood had darkened. Still, the trail wasn’t difficult to follow. In about a hundred meters, the tracks turned east, back toward the river. I considered skipping the methodical job of tracking Skinner and instead racing straight to his mokoro, to wait and surprise him there. But on the off chance he had another destination in mind, I stuck to the trail.
Now the prints and trampled grass led over a complicated landscape of granite-laced grassland, barren hardpan, and gently rolling dune slopes. The wall of smoke to the south told me the fire had burned all the way to the ravine, where it would likely fizzle and die. The wide, muddy flats there formed a barrier that would protect Sam’s blind on the far bank. I could only imagine the stampede of animals Sam must have seen from his high outpost.
A few minutes later, I found the place where Skinner had rested for the night. He had chosen a spot next to a nearly dry stream where a mess of wild creepers competing for moisture strangled their own kin. Footprints led into the shallow water, where he had probably tried to clean his wound. He had peed against a tree and stretched out flat on the tangle of vines. The tracks that led away from his resting spot were recent, sharp-edged, and neatly compressed. Next to every right footprint was a deep, round hole the circumference of a coin. He was leaning heavily on a walking stick. I knew the end of the hunt was near.
My preparations became studied and methodical. Already, I was steadying myself for the job of aiming, firing, and killing. I crouched at the edge of the stream and splashed water on my head and face. I ate a stick of biltong and took a small sip from the canteen, rationing its contents to fuel the grim task ahead. I checked the cartridges in my rifle. I peed in an arc against the same tree Skinner had used. I was turning to go when the sound of gunshots cracked through the air—first one shot and then another.
The reverberations and the tracks led me in the same direction. I had walked only a short way when more shots rang out. I guessed Skinner was firing at easy targets, francolins or guinea fowl, driven by hunger and the realization he had nowhere to go. Would an ill-advised campfire be next? He had no training in outdoor survival as far as I knew. Marks’s killer would be as reckless and disdainful of his surroundings as any ivory mercenary. The thought pushed me to run faster.
I came to a broad plain thick with whippy grass. A barely discernable, rapidly closing part in the grass marked Skinner’s passage. The plain hosted a herd of zebras, the usual scattering of impalas, and several giraffes currently ambling across the trail I wanted to follow. The ever-skittish impalas had moved to the far right side of the field. Most of the zebras were drifting that way too. Clearly, Skinner had stayed to the left. The less easily impressed giraffes took several minutes to clear the area. When they did, I hurried past a mess of trampled grass, picking up Skinner’s trail farther on. The lost time didn’t worry me. I knew I was closing in.
I found him close to an hour later. The tracks had brought me to a densely wooded zone thick with underbrush. I heard him before I saw him. He was beating the ground with his walking stick: thump-thump-thump. I crept to a tree trunk and peered around it. What I saw then, I will never forget.
Skinner had stepped into the jaws of a gin trap, one of the merciless devices poachers used to disable random animals. The jagged metal teeth had clamped down with a force that snapped his left leg to an unnatural angle and cut deep into his calf. Blood poured from the wound. His other leg, where he had been shot, was streaked with dried and fresh blood. He was propped on an elbow, brandishing his walking stick at something out of my view. A wounded hyena lay panting a couple of meters in front of him. Behind a scrim of bushes, another hyena paced back and forth, slinging drool. A third sat under a tree, waiting patiently. The pack had sniffed him out, looking for an easy meal. Skinner must have shot at them until he ran out of ammunition and then flung the weapon at his boldest tormentor. The gun lay in the dirt near the mortally wounded animal.
My lifelong adversary did not intend to let the hyenas or anyone else end his life. His jaws were working hard, chewing. Even crouched behind the tree a distance away, I could hear the crunching and grin
ding of his teeth. Red saliva ran down his chin. I watched him put down his stick and quickly raise another handful of lucky bean seeds to his mouth. He had unstrung enough beads from his bracelet to empty almost a meter of black cord, now draped across his knee. The poison could take hours to kill him.
I rose and stepped out from behind the tree. He must have been too weak or too far gone to register surprise. He looked at me with narrowed eyes, chewing faster. Staring at my face, he closed his fingers around the walking stick. Something crackled in the underbrush. I unshouldered my rifle, took aim, and ended the suffering of the wounded hyena lying at my feet. Then I turned my back and headed for the river.
24
THE MEMORIAL FOR MARKS DREW a crowd that filled every table, chair, and stool at Captain Biggie’s. People spilled out the door and stood or sat on the dusty sidewalk, smoking and talking in low voices. Guides and rangers came from camps all over the region. Villagers crowded in, blank-faced with disbelief. Everyone I knew and loved was there.
After the tributes, there were toasts—many toasts, with laughter as well as tears. Captain Biggie kept the glasses full. No one was in a hurry to leave.
I commandeered a table for Jackson, Kiki, Luke, and Jaleen. They had closed Motembo for the week, leaving Teaspoon and Nate in charge. In the absence of guests, Good Sam and his sons were on the job, cutting back overgrowth and tidying the paths between the tents. Apparently, they had work to do at the river too, clearing a crush of logs that had turned up overnight. Jackson told me that Sam’s sons had gone to the place where Skinner met his end. They found the gin trap, the shotgun, a few bones wound in shredded khaki, and one waffle-soled boot. Sadly, three of the hyenas that feasted there had died of secondary poisoning.
The Americans I had abandoned at the baobab tree had driven themselves back to camp as I predicted. But—and this was the astonishing part—they had not returned until the next morning, twenty-four hours after I left them. I couldn’t imagine any of those guests, least of all Abby, voting to spend the night in the open air, under the stars in the African bush. An entire day and night? No one filled me in on how they spent those long, blazing daylight hours and even longer, bone-chilling midnight hours. I wasn’t sure anyone at Motembo knew the whole story, but it must have been a whopper. The Land Cruiser, tidy, polished, and in peak condition when we drove out of camp in the morning, had come back a dented, mud-caked, half-demolished heap, as though a herd of Cape buffalos had kicked it into the river and horned a gash in the front seat for good measure. One look at the wreckage, and Jackson had ordered the vehicle driven out of sight of the other guests. Fortunately, the Americans had returned in somewhat better condition.
No one in camp had spent too much time worrying about me. Jackson had assumed I had driven the guests to their plane as planned and then taken a few hours to scout the sectors and enjoy my time with no assigned duties. When the Americans showed up without me the following morning, twelve new guests had settled into camp and were getting ready for their first game drive. The question of where I was took a back seat to more immediate concerns—most urgently, the pressing needs of the four guests who had experienced far more of the African bush than they had expected to. After a feverish morning in which Kiki managed to arrange connecting first-class flights to the United States, the Americans departed for home, more or less satisfied with the outcome. Shortly after they left, I walked into camp.
Upon my return, I was relieved to find my journal in the Cruiser where I had left it. With a heavy heart, I turned back the cover. Under the name “Bongani Baas,” I printed a new memorial entry: “Marks.” Then I thumbed through the worn pages, reading jottings that traced what I believed to be my now-finished, short-lived career as a guide. Near the back I discovered a note from Abby:
Bones, we all hope you’re alive and well enough to read this. Please write to us about what happened after you went away. Everyone is worried and wants to know. I trust you don’t mind that I read parts of your journal, looking for guidance. Your notes and writing inspired me. I’ve started journaling myself. I plan to encourage my students to do so too. Wishing you well, Abby.
She closed with her address and a little drawing of a girl wearing a vest with many pockets.
Now, at home in the village, I had already started writing my response. The letter was going to be lengthy because I wanted to explain why I had abandoned her and her friends at the baobab tree, not just what had happened afterward. I felt they needed to know everything about Skinner, maybe as far back as the cobra and the washtub, to fully understand the forces at work on that fateful morning. In return, I hoped Abby would write back to tell me all that had happened after I said, “Wait here,” and walked away.
I hadn’t reached Marks in time to save him, but no one questioned my decision to try. Instead of firing me for abandoning the guests, Jackson had handed me my official guide certification papers, which had finally come through, and awarded me four weeks of home leave. I found out the ivory poachers Marks had been following slaughtered at least one big male tusker as the terrified animal fled the same fire that threatened us. After sawing away the tusks, they carved “Warlords/Stay Away” in the side of the carcass. Tragically, despite heroic efforts by men like Marks, the war against the ivory trade was far from over.
The first thing I did during my home leave was build ramps for Zola next to the stairs at Baba’s house, Rotting House, and Swale’s Grocery. My sister’s wheelchair was helping her get around while she healed from multiple fractures and internal injuries. The doctors said the chair was a temporary aid. She was young and resilient, they said. In time, with therapy and support, she was likely to make a full recovery.
I had been shocked when I first saw her. She peered at me out of swollen, blackened eyes with the expression of a person bludgeoned by despair. Her arm rested in a sling. A long, shapeless robe concealed bruises and bandages I could only guess at. When I leaned in to kiss her cheek, I saw on her neck rows of purple bruises the size of lucky bean seeds. As fast as I could, I slipped off my bracelet, unstrung the seeds, and threw them to the wind.
Zola’s condition tapped a deep reservoir of compassion in my friend Rooper Nobbs. He became my sister’s devoted helpmate, asking nothing in return. On most afternoons he pushed her chair to Rotting House, where she sat quietly on the newly painted porch with Granny, who understood that conversation was not required. Even as the Ovambos clucked and stirred up dust, grief claimed my sister’s full attention.
At the gathering to honor Marks, Roop positioned Zola’s chair next to a table with Granny, my father, and Mrs. Swale. I had been intensely relieved to find Mima’s mother pink-cheeked and vigorous—the image of good health. Mima told me what had happened. On short notice, after her mother experienced chest pains and fainting, the doctor sent her to a specialized medical center for a new procedure to replace her narrowed aortic valve. Instead of opening her chest, the surgeon delivered the valve through a catheter, a less invasive operation that within days got her on her feet and breathing normally again. Mima had brought her back to the village shortly before I arrived, delighted to surprise me with the good news.
Already, Mrs. Swale was back at work, negotiating new hours and responsibilities with Aunt Letty. Apparently, my aunt had become a little territorial behind the counter. Mrs. Swale said she guarded the Temik like a bulldog. Customers with rat problems were forced to choose between the rats and my aunt’s sharp-eyed surveillance. Some actually chose the rats.
I was helping Captain Biggie serve drinks at the memorial when I noticed that Chiddy and Uncle Stash had taken their chairs outside. They sat in the shade, with Hannie and the twins at their feet. The children’s frequent bursts of laughter came as a tonic on that mostly sober afternoon. I carried out a tray of lemonade and got an earful of Stash’s latest trove of interesting facts.
“They’re flammable,” he was saying. “Did you know that, Donovan and Drew? It�
�s true! Because of the hydrogen and methane.” He glanced up at me. “Oh, hi, Bonesy. We’re discussing flatology.”
“Where is your fine, fine girlfriend?” Chiddy asked, changing the subject. “She has been missing you these many, many weeks.”
I tilted my head toward the door. “Inside. I’ve missed her too.”
I didn’t add that I hoped my separation from Mima would soon come to an end. Jackson had pulled an extra chair to his table and invited Mima to join him and the Motembo crew. She had been sitting there now for at least an hour, talking, listening, and taking the measure of people I had come to know well. They were learning about her too, of course. I glanced through the door to see Jaleen and Kiki lean toward her to share something that made them all laugh.
The two rangers who had carried Marks’s body out of the path of the fire had sat quietly on stools next to the bar for most of the afternoon. They were local men, unused to large groups of people and too shy to speak during the tributes. I went inside and stood next to them, not expecting to talk. I just wanted to recognize the men, to say with my presence that I respected them, honored their work, and appreciated their loyalty to Marks. I was startled when one of them spoke. His voice was so soft I had to move in closer.
“We buried him deep.” His eyes were not on me but somewhere else, remembering. “When we finished, we placed rocks on the disturbed soil, a blanket of rocks and stones. That night we slept by the side of the grave. I woke up at sunrise. Even before I opened my eyes, I felt them there. Elephants. A herd of elephants stood about ten meters away, on the other side. They were very quiet. The biggest female stepped forward first. She wanded her trunk over the stones and gently toed one of the rocks. After a moment she moved on. The rest of the elephants filed slowly past the grave, one by one.”
The Story of Bones Page 26