by Ruskin Bond
“It’s dead,” Willy said flatly to the men below. He heard the engine start up, saw the Land Rover speed out across the plain, one man hanging off the side as it veered around stumps and brush, scattering hornbills, flushing a warthog. Willy saw the men jump from the cab, axes out. Watched as they set on the bull, hacking at the tusk roots as if they were felling timber. When he saw the angry red holes in the elephant’s cheeks, he dropped the binoculars and climbed down the tree. He felt cold and sick, and around his head the question reeled: weren’t he and his father as bad as Davis and his men? Their buck was no less dead than the elephant. Yet there had to be a difference, if only he could think of the words.
When the truck returned, Jacob was arguing with Davis.
“What about the meat?” Willy’s father was shouting. “It will feed many hungry people.”
Davis scoffed, “Listen to Saint Jacob here. Wants to risk our necks to feed the poor!”
The other men were laughing, but as Willy scrambled into the truck, he saw the flicker of guilt in their eyes before they turned away. Jacob sat and glared at his feet, but Willy couldn’t take his eyes off the two long rolls of gunnysack on the truck floor. A red stain was swelling through the cloth. It was turning into a face — Davis’s face, with the crocodile gape.
No one spoke again until the ranger jammed on the brakes and told Willy and his father to beat it. The day was getting on, he said, and he still had to stash the ivory. “Now remember, Jacob,” he leered, “you come when I call.”
Jacob turned on his heel and strode into the bush. Willy had to run to keep up, the wind drying his tears to a salty crust. And though it was a long way home, his father did not speak once or even look back at him.
After this, things only grew worse. With each day, Willy watched his father sink into himself a little more, like a man slowly sucked into Luangwa quicksand. Only once did Willy say, “Can’t we go to the chief, Dadda? Can’t we tell him?” At last, Jacob sighed and said that when it came to ivory poaching, the stakes were high and who knew who was running it or whose protection Davis had bought. At least he and Willy weren’t in jail or worse. But Willy could see it was a devil’s bargain and that his father knew it. Nor did the news that a truck of mealie meal and cooking oil had arrived at the mission lift Jacob’s spirits. Willy railed inside, running the scene with the rope over and over in his head, each time carefully stowing it in his pocket, making a better ending. If he thought it enough times, perhaps it would be so.
It was only when he was standing in line at the mission, waiting for Father McGuire to hand out his family’s food rations, that Willy knew. This was the man to tell, the strange white man with sun-scoured cheeks and wild, red hair. Hadn’t Willy always known him? He had been to Father McGuire’s school until he was twelve years old and needed on the farm instead. And the priest had given Willy good reason to remember him. He had once made him learn the entire David and Goliath story by heart and recite it to him word perfect after class because he had found Willy fighting a boy much smaller than himself. Later, when Jacob had come to hear of the incident, he had looked at Willy hard and said, “I hope you learned your lesson, boy.” Father McGuire would help them. He was a hard man but fair.
Later when the other villagers had gone and Willy had steeled himself to go back and knock on the office door, Father McGuire did listen to Willy’s tale. The priest’s cheeks flushed redder than his wild, red hair. “Son of a serpent!” he exclaimed, thumping the table, while Willy shrank into the floor, amazed at the old man’s fury. But then the priest had looked more kindly. “Now I’ll not say poaching buck is a good thing. But killing for ivory! Forcing hungry souls to commit a crime — that’s breaking God’s laws as well as man’s!” Then he had slipped into an angry silence as if fighting battles inside his head.
At last Father McGuire had said, “Now, William. This is dangerous ground — for all of us. But I’ll speak to the bishop. If he can’t catch a government minister’s ear and tell him what’s going on up here, then no one can.” As they walked to the mission door, Father McGuire turned and clasped Willy’s hand in his veiny paws. “Well done, my lad. It took courage to tell me this. Now have faith! Davis Sata’s poaching days are numbered.”
At first, Willy’s heart had soared, the heavy weight of his guilt melting clean away, but as he trailed along the dusty road with his bag of mealie meal and bottle of oil, he began to have doubts. What if the priest spoke to the wrong people and Davis Sata heard? The thought made his stomach churn. Had he made things worse by telling Father McGuire?
Two long weeks later when the Land Rover came again, Willy was trembling with fear, wondering if the ranger had discovered his betrayal. In the back of the truck, his father put a hand on Willy’s arm as if to say, it’s all right, boy. But Willy couldn’t tell him why he was so afraid, not with the two men there.
As before, they were driven to the giant baobab, and Willy was sent up the poacher’s ladder. Then for an age he wiped the cold sweat from his brow and scanned the wooded fringes of the grassland as it emerged from darkness. Below him, Davis was kicking the steel cap of his boot against the iron trunk, thwack, thwack, thwack. It seemed like a death sentence, but there was no elephant in sight. Willy prayed for deliverance, staring out across the empty world.
Then suddenly there it was: a big old bull cruising the tall grass at the forest edge, coming out of nowhere. Willy focused on the wrinkled, red-dusted hide, the battle-torn ears, the great sweep of ivory with one tip broken. Something about the bull’s sure steps reminded him of his father, and suddenly his fear of Davis Sata was shot with anger. Perhaps he wouldn’t get it after all. He prayed with all his might that Davis wouldn’t. Besides, it looked as if the bull was heading toward the thorn trees near the river. Davis would have to shoot from over there if he wanted enough cover to get in close, which meant Jacob would have to swing wide, almost to Luangwa’s banks.
He heard the ranger curse at having so much ground to cross. He was too well-fed for this kind of exertion. Even so, he set off swiftly enough, hustling Jacob. Willy watched them creeping low through the scrub, with Jacob checking the wind at every stand. Off to their right, the old bull held a steady course, plying calm waters with no thought of the storm ahead.
Flicking the binoculars back toward the river, Willy could see the cruel set of the ranger’s jaw, the tension in Jacob’s hunched shoulders. And all Willy could do was stand in the tree and shiver.
Then at last Davis was in position, taking aim. Jacob was a little way behind, crouched against a tree. It was only when the shot resounded and the elephant fell that Willy saw the second bull. It was coming the other way: out of the thorn trees. The first bull was still twitching, and Davis fired another round at it. As the gun went off, the second elephant broke cover behind Jacob.
“Dadda!” Willy nearly screamed — for the bull had seen Jacob, and, with its ears out and trunk curled, it charged — but the warning stuck in Willy’s throat. He could only stare in horror. Then at the last moment, Jacob saw the charging elephant and flung himself behind the tree. Just then, Davis stood up to inspect his kill. In the blink of an eye, the bull had him, screaming its rage, tossing Davis like a twist of rag, piercing his cruel heart.
There was no cry from the man. And when it was done, the avenging bull stood beside his fallen comrade and gently explored the dead, gray face with the tip of his trunk, urging him to rise.
Willy thought his head would explode. Dadda. Why wasn’t he moving? But suddenly there he was, snaking back through the brush, and by the time Willy had scrambled out of the tree, his father was slumped against the empty Land Rover, gasping for breath, his own face gray as ashes. “Others … where?”
“Run away. When the elephant roared.”
“Then let’s go.”
A few days later, it was the talk of Luangwa that Davis Sata’s gun, the Land Rover, and not much of Davis had been found by fellow rangers. The official story claimed that he had been kill
ed by poachers, but no one believed it. No one was sorry. Secretly Willy wondered if Father McGuire had somehow caused the ranger’s death. He remembered the ring of certainty as the priest said Davis Sata’s poaching days were numbered. He shuddered.
It wasn’t long after this that the paramount chief of the district called a meeting down at the mission. Willy went with Jacob and a crowd of village men. They listened, unmoved by the chief’s formal preamble, but when he unexpectedly announced that at long last the government had seen sense over the wildlife problem, there was a ripple of interest. From now on, the chief said, the villages of Luangwa will reap some benefits from their old tribal territory. “When the antelope herds are culled, the game meat will be shared among you. And when foreign tourists pay to visit the park, some of those fees will go to your schools and clinics.” The murmurs of approval grew louder. The chief held up his hands. “But in return, there must be no more poaching. Of any kind. If you so much as smell an ivory hunter, I want to know. You take care of the animals, and they’ll take care of you.”
Willy nodded. This made good sense. Everyone seemed to think so. Even Father McGuire, who was sitting in the far corner of the meeting room, was smiling. Perhaps he had arranged this, too. But when Willy turned to his father to see what he thought of the new rules, all he said was, “We’d have saved ourselves much sorrow if the government had said these things sooner.”
On the way home, as they walked side by side past their neighbors’ wasted gardens, Jacob suddenly turned to Willy and cried, “I hope you’ve learned your lessons, boy.” Willy looked back, uncomprehending, as Jacob’s brow began to twitch. “Why, surely you know!” And when Willy did not answer he said, “Always have a tree between you and a charging elephant. And never, ever lose your rope.”
Now Willy laughed, too. He and his father even danced a step on the red, dusty road. Above, a cloudless sky glowed blue as a china bowl, lighting up their ravaged fields. But soon, God willing, the rains would come, and they could start to plant next year’s mealies.
Winning
by Joseph Yenkavitch
Illustrated by Andrew Standeven
Tom Perry concentrated hard. The rocket competition would begin shortly, and he wanted to be sure he hadn’t left any detail unchecked. No possible glitch was too small to be ignored. Nothing could jeopardize his winning.
He had never lost a contest, but that didn’t calm him. Being on top counted, and he pushed himself to remain there.
The other kids, however, rarely came over to him. Whenever they did, it usually made him feel like they’d been forced to do it. No way, though, was he going over to them. He’d win again, and they couldn’t ignore that.
He opened his toolbox. Pushing aside engines, igniters, glue, tape, and microclips, he pulled out the pieces of his launch pad and began assembling it.
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up. His father stood there. Ever since the divorce, his father had attended more contests, but not enough to completely take away the hurt Tom felt. Still, he was glad Dad was here.
“How’s it going?” his father asked.
“Fine,” Tom replied, grunting as he tried to put one leg of the launch pad in the wrong way and finally turned it around.
His father pursed his lips. Tom knew the look. It meant he had something important on his mind.
“Relax” his father said. “Enjoy yourself. You’ve done the best you can, haven’t you?”
Tom nodded. He wanted to say he always did his best. He won every time, didn’t he? Mostly, though, he wanted to ask why it made so little difference. Why didn’t being first make everyone like him better?
He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. When he looked up, he was almost sure his father understood. But did he really understand losing and what it meant? No one had much to do with him now. What would happen if he lost?
Time was passing, and he hadn’t started readying his rocket. “Uh, Dad …” he said.
“Oh sure,” his father replied. “Good luck.” He winked and went to the bleachers.
Tom checked his rocket again. Everything from the smooth fuselage to perfect aerodynamics told him he had another winner — especially when he glanced at the other rockets.
He noticed problems quickly. A green rocket had dents and rough areas around the decals: drag. He knew its altitude would be limited. Another had fins too close to its center of gravity: without a doubt the rocket would tumble. A red rocket with overly wide fins showed cracks where the stages met. Uncalled for, he felt. Sloppiness.
One rocket, however, caught his eye. Its finish glinted in the sun. The painted areas were finely done, and the seal between the stages was practically invisible.
It had the look. His critical eye detected that this rocket could beat his.
A thin boy lifted it carefully. Tom turned away and started placing the igniter wire into his engine. It slipped from his hand and became lost in the grass. Unable to find it, he found another one and fitted it carefully into place.
“Hi,” said a voice out of the blue.
Tom looked up. The thin boy peered down, a nervous smile on his face. His hands jingled coins in his pocket.
“Nice rocket you’ve got there,” the boy said.
“Thanks,” Tom replied without much emotion, then regretted it. “Looks like you spent a lot of time on yours. Where do you fire it? I haven’t seen you at any of the competitions.”
“In the field behind my house. By the way, my name’s Ed.”
“Tom. You don’t care for these contests?”
“I never really thought about them. I keep pretty much to myself.”
One of the other boys walked past and tapped Ed on the arm. “You’re new here,” he said. “Maybe you can beat him.” The boy glanced down at Tom, but there wasn’t any warmth in his face.
“Guess you’re king of the hill,” Ed said.
Tom waited for a snide remark, but it didn’t come.
“Well,” Ed said, “good luck. Maybe sometime we could … well, see you after the contest.” He walked away and knelt beside his rocket.
Seeing the rocket again gave Tom a sinking feeling in his stomach. He ran a hand through his damp brown hair and wiped it across his blue T-shirt. Trying to ignore his nervousness, he sat back on the grass, propping himself up on his elbows. A refreshing breeze started. The airless, sticky morning was changing. Pulling out his notes, Tom matched up these conditions with those of previous flights to see what angle his launch pad would need. He didn’t have to alter a thing.
The announcer asked for everyone’s attention and proceeded to explain the competition. Tom barely listened, his gaze constantly drifting to Ed’s rocket.
Suddenly his heart did a leap, and he sat upright — within a fraction of a second, Tom knew that Ed had no chance of winning
Tom had noticed that as Ed lifted his rocket to place it on the launch pad, one fin had caught against something in the ground, pulling it away from the fuselage. Not enough to break it off, just enough to loosen it. Immediately the fin resumed its proper place, only now it was fatally weakened.
But Ed hadn’t noticed. He glanced back at Tom and gave a thumbs-up sign. Tom felt a twinge of regret but decided he wasn’t going to jeopardize a sure win by saying anything. Anyway, it was up to Ed to keep checking his rocket.
The announcer called the first contestant. A blond-haired girl excitedly clipped on the firing wires. With a facial expression that made it seem she was setting off a pound of dynamite, she pressed the ignition button. The rocket spit out exhaust and sped upward, then quickly tumbled, hitting the ground. It sputtered, firing its second stage into the grass. Teeth clenched, the girl walked back to the other contestants.
The second rocket flew a considerable distance, but Tom noticed an obvious wobble and knew that would certainly reduce its altitude.
And so it went, one rocket after another, most gaining respectable heights, while a few careened wildly. Men at tracking stations that loo
ked like giant protractors far off to each side of the launch pad scribbled down numbers.
Tom watched, but the problems the others had didn’t make him feel good. For the first time the looks on their faces bothered him.
Someone made a joke, and that got everyone laughing, even the blond girl. Tom felt twice as alone now. He would have his victory, yet they seemed to be having more fun. The knowledge he had about what was wrong with their rockets soured within him. It felt like something he had stolen. He pulled at a few blades of grass.
“Ed Malovich will be our next contestant,” the announcer said, interrupting Tom’s daydream. Immediately Ed lifted his rocket and started to the launch area.
Without thinking, words flowed from Tom’s mouth so that it almost surprised him to hear them.
“Ed, hold up!” he yelled. Ed stopped. Heads in the bleachers turned, watching him.
“What is it?” Ed asked.
Tom walked up to him and pointed at his rocket. “It’s your fin. It’s loose.”
Alarmed, Ed looked down and tested the fin. Like a broken wing, it bent. He held it up to the announcer, who gave him five minutes to fix it.
“You should have kept quiet,” Ed said. “You’d have won for sure.”
A few minutes later Ed’s rocket blasted skyward, shooting up flawlessly. No wobbles, cutting the air as though it knew nothing could stop it. Higher and higher it climbed, a puff of smoke indicating the second stage had fired, and soon after another puff signaled that the parachute had deployed. Even without tracking equipment, Tom could tell it had beaten all the others easily
Everyone cheered. Tom watched so intently that he didn’t hear his name being called. When it was repeated, it startled him.
He moved to the pad. The excited jabbering of the other kids continued, but he tuned it out. Nonetheless, his fingers trembled as he connected the wires to the igniter. He wondered if he should have said anything. Who would have known?