by Nell Brien
Their father stared down at the front of his shirt, slowly soaking in blood, then up at Joel, who was stone-faced, still aiming at his father’s chest. Then he fell across the steering wheel. Cat struggled to pull him back. She tore open his bloody shirt, hands shaking, trying to plug the wound with great gobs of Vaseline from a jar kept in the glove compartment. No one spoke. Then Joel put down the rifle, helped her push their father into the passenger seat. She held him steady while Joel drove down the canyon, his feet barely able to reach the accelerator and brake.
Tom climbed out, came around to her. “Cat, it’s what happened. You wanted to know.”
“It’s okay, Tom.” She dragged at her collar, opening it wider. “I’m glad you did. I just need some air. Give me a minute.” She walked closer to the baobab tree.
A hunting accident. That’s what they’d said. The police accepted their story without question. They’d been only ten—who would doubt them? They went out the next day, searched for the cubs, but they had disappeared without trace, too young to survive alone. Coyotes probably. Their father survived. Hours of surgery, months of recuperation. But he didn’t die.
He didn’t die, but they had thought that they would be free of him.
Such innocents. They had never been free of him.
Either of them.
Twenty-One
The drumming on the canvas roof stopped as suddenly as it had started. At four that morning it had sounded as if the sky had tipped like an overfull barrel. Since then, sleep, already fitful after what Tom had told her, had been impossible.
“Jambo, Miss Cat.” Thomas banged on the canvas door of Cat’s tent. “Kawaha.” He unzipped the bottom of the door, slid through a tray.
“Jambo, Thomas. Asante.” Since that day on the mountain, her relationship with Thomas had moved to a different level. He fussed over her, brought coffee to her tent, saw to it that she ate what he considered to be enough. “What’s going on out there?”
“Mvua. Rainy season going on, Miss Cat. We pack up fast.”
Cat splashed cold water on her face, pulled on jeans and a sweater, shoved her feet into boots and picked up her coffee. She stepped out into a chill morning filled with the scents of grass and wet earth, coffee and frying bacon. From horizon to horizon, the sky billowed with clouds, five separate storms clearly discernible. Miles away rain fell like brush strokes in a watercolor, and the sky was torn by lightning. The whole storm system was moving south in waves, every shade of gray she could imagine was visible, tinted with violet and pink and a heavy sulfurous yellow.
The men not on watch had slept under canvas last night for the first time, and a mess tent had been erected. She slipped on a green slicker, sloshed her way through the mud.
Tom was finishing as she arrived, and Campbell, avoiding her as usual, was already supervising the men. She ate alone, not inclined to linger over breakfast in a mess tent enclosed on three sides and open to the elements on the fourth. Half an hour later they left the men to finish loading their Land Rover and headed south.
Overnight, game trails that had been axle deep in dust had become racing streams. On a parallel course, the wet black bodies of wildebeest glistened as they made their own relentless way across the rain-soaked grassland.
Inside the Land Rover, the air was heavy with moisture. Rain pounding the roof made conversation difficult, and Cat stared out at the drenched landscape, her mind on what Tom had told her—pondering how similar it was to what Campbell had said was the way Joel died. The camera, the refusal to be warned. All his life Joel had needed to prove himself. He’d been courageous. Rash. Foolhardy, even. But he would never have taken the same risk twice, as these men claimed he had.
The vehicle slid through mud. The ground was more deeply rutted, and the Land Rover ground its way over limbs of downed trees, churned through water-filled depressions.
“This looks like a battlefield,” she said. She had to raise her voice to be heard. Everywhere trees were shattered, entire root systems upended, mud dripping from them like clots of blood.
“Looks worse than it is. Elephants lean on the trees, knock them over and eat the roots. Actually it creates water catchment and new grazing.” He slowed. “There’s a few of the culprits.”
Enormous gray shapes appeared eerily through the rain, showing no fear of the Land Rover. Cat wound down her window. Just a few feet away, its outline softened by the mist of rain, a single elephant fanned huge ears. Cat looked into a large, long-lashed eye that seemed filled with an ancient knowledge, a window on a remote past. Time stilled. Then Tom pressed gently on the gas, and the elephants faded, blending with the gray mist, then disappeared, shrouded by rain.
“There used to be millions, once,” Tom said.
“Then why do you still hunt?”
“Why did you Americans kill sixty million buffalo?”
“To subdue the Indian nations. Why have you Africans killed ten million elephants?”
After a moment’s silence, he said, “We didn’t go after Ahmed, did we?”
“Not this time. You wiped out your competition, instead.”
He looked as if he wanted to answer her and was biting back words. Thunder rolled and crashed. Rain sheeted across the windshield, the wiper terthunking back and forth, useless against the deluge. Impossibly, the rain grew heavier, hammering the roof. Lightning flashed. The herd of wildebeest veered, surrounding the Land Rover. Among them, zebra and impala were carried along by the press of bodies. The wildebeest broke into a trot, changed course, then milled around without purpose.
Ahead of them, Campbell signaled with a circling arm out of his window. Tom drew alongside.
“They’re getting a bit spooked,” Campbell shouted. “They’re thinner toward the southwest. We’ll go around them and swing southeast.”
Tom nodded.
“Keep up close, Tom.”
Campbell’s Land Rover moved slowly forward. A crack of lightning tore through the rain.
“What is it?” Cat asked anxiously.
“Nothing to worry about. Nyumbu are giddy creatures at best. In these numbers—” Tom shook his head. He put his fingers to the front of his shirt. “Panic can spread through the whole herd. It’s best to go around them. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t keep saying that. You’re making me nervous.” Only recently had she realized that when he was worried or uncomfortable, Tom fingered the intricately beaded antelope-skin medicine pouch he wore under his shirt. Tom often surprised her. He was an educated man, but his roots went deep into a primitive culture.
The long faces of the wildebeest seemed suddenly sinister; they were no longer simply lovable clowns with silly little beards and cute rumps, prone to kicking up their heels and prancing about out of sheer joie de vivre. Now the beards were matted, dripping with water, and she couldn’t see the skinny rear ends. All she could see was the spread of curved horns as long as the span of Texas longhorns.
The terrain was dropping noticeably, and Cat reached for the map. “I don’t think we’ll be able to use that streambed,” she said. “Not now.” The streambed was marked on the map as a dry watercourse. Their plan had been to follow it south for several miles, then cross and turn east toward Maasai Springs. They had expected to be across by midmorning. It was already long past that.
Tom slammed a foot on the brake. The ground had fallen away abruptly, and the western bank of the watercourse was almost under the wheels. In one night it had become a raging, debris-clogged torrent filled from bank to bank with wild, silt-laden water. Wildebeest slipped over the edge, the press of their numbers on the steep mud slope forcing them into the stream. They waded toward the eastern bank, the smaller animals fighting to keep to their feet, the old and weak swept downstream by the rush of water.
A few yards downstream Campbell had come to a stop at the water’s edge and was out of his vehicle. He pushed his way through the crush of wildebeest and leaned in the window, handing Tom his binoculars.
“Tak
e a look. About ten o’clock.”
Tom stood in the doorway, trained the glasses and swore.
Cat took out her own glasses, peered through the rain-slashed windshield, seeing nothing but gray. Then slowly, on the other side of the torrent, a dim red-clad figure wavered into view. Two or three figures, surrounded by moving animals.
“They look like women. Who are they?”
“I’ll have to go across and ask them,” Campbell said.
“That stream’s running too high,” Tom said.
“Well, we can’t just leave them there.”
Campbell pushed his way back to his Land Rover. Axle deep in mud, the vehicle ground down the deep bank, edged slowly into the water and rocked toward the middle of the stream. Water frothed like detergent as it eddied around the Land Rover. A drowning wildebeest slammed again and again into the chassis. The vehicle rocked drunkenly. The animal swirled away. Campbell was in the middle of the stream, the rush of water obliterating the sound of the laboring engine. The Land Rover stopped. An age passed. It jolted forward. Cat let out her breath.
“He’s got them,” Tom said after a moment. He wiped the rain from the binoculars, put them back to his eyes. “He’s bringing them across.”
The wildebeest, packing more densely on both banks, reluctantly gave way to Campbell’s Land Rover, then closed in behind it. Cat turned in her seat and felt the blood drain from her face. A solid mass of animals was pressing in, a sea of horns in every direction.
Campbell ground back across the stream, leaning from his window as he drew alongside. Water dripped from the heads of the three Maasai crushed together in the front seat—an old woman, a much younger heavily pregnant woman and a small girl. They leaned forward, peering around Campbell to stare with friendly interest at Cat. She smiled and waved. They broke into wide answering smiles and waved back.
“They’re on their way to their home place for the birth,” Campbell shouted. “Time’s near so they decided on a shortcut to beat the rain. You’ll have to take them, Tom, we can’t let them travel alone. You know their place, over by Fig Tree. Take you a day or two in this weather. Better hurry, though, or you’ll find yourself acting as midwife.”
Tom swore in Swahili and Campbell laughed, then climbed out of his Land Rover. He reached back for the little girl. The two women clambered out and followed close as he opened a path through the crush of animals, carefully holding the child high against his chest. Tom opened the door, and the two men used their bodies as a barrier against the pressure of wildebeest while the women crowded into Tom’s Land Rover.
Campbell forced his way around the vehicle, opened Cat’s door. “Your turn. Come on.”
Her mouth was dry. Outside the safety of the Land Rover, the world seemed full of horns. Not longhorns, she told herself.
Not longhorns. Wildebeest. She’d been about the age of the child now grinning happily at her from behind the gun rack. God, she prayed silently, don’t let me pee my pants. She took Campbell’s hand, climbed out into the maelstrom.
Rain slashed her face. She turned to pull out the portfolio from behind her seat—it was filled with photographs she had taken of possible sites, but more importantly, it contained the sketches Joel had sent her. She struggled to keep the door open.
“For God’s sake, Cat.” Campbell grabbed her shoulders. “Come on!”
“My portfolio,” she yelled against the noise of the rain and rushing stream.
“We can’t get at it now. It’s safe with Tom.”
“No!” The Land Rover was beginning to move. Suddenly she could hear Raul Guitterrez’s amused comments about women, their place in the world, the laughter about what they did best, cute asses, great tits. She couldn’t lose that portfolio. Rain beat against her face, blurred her vision. She pounded the roof.
Campbell pulled her away from the door. She turned to beat at him. “I’ve got to get my portfolio!”
He slammed the door, bent to wave Tom on, then shoved her behind him. “Hold on to my jacket.”
Cat grabbed at the door but the Land Rover was gathering speed, breaking from her grasp. Frustrated, she turned back to Campbell. He shouldered his way through the herd, and she held his belt, fearing to be separated from him. Steam rose from the backs of the wildebeest pressing against them. Every minute she expected to be crushed by the heavy, moving bodies. The powerful bovine smell, the cacophony of bleating grunts hammered against her. A thirty-inch span of horns fanned her cheek. She closed her eyes, pressed her head into Campbell’s back. Then he was forcing open a door, shoving her into a seat. The floor of the Land Rover was black with mud. The whole interior smelled of river water, but after the chaos outside it was sanctuary.
The stream, filled now with swimming animals, was higher. Another piece of bank gave way, melting into the torrent. The Land Rover tilted.
Cat held on to her seat. “We’re going in!”
Campbell pressed gently on the gas. The wheels spun, then grabbed. He backed up. “We’ll find a place to cross downstream.”
They turned southwest, away from the river, stopping frequently to search for a path through the gathering herds. The sky was darker. Large bulls turned to face the Land Rover as it passed, and she remembered Tom telling her they were courageous in defense, often fending off young lions.
Thunder cracked across the darkening plain. The animals broke into a trot, jostling each other nervously, disoriented, aimless. Lightning forked and cracked, again and again. Thunderclaps shook the earth. Lowering clouds seemed to empty. The rush of water was impenetrable. Directly overhead now, the storm was deafening.
“We’ll have to wait it out,” Campbell shouted. “I’ll find a—”
The rest was lost. A hundred feet away, lightning struck the earth, a double jagged strike, snaking blue flame. As one body, the herd moved. Inside the Land Rover, Cat felt the vibration of thousands of pounding hooves streak through the earth like a seismic wave as the terror-stricken animals fought to get away, gathering speed, galloping, colliding. Panic spread like wind-driven floodwater. Animals stumbled, struggling to regain their footing, then disappeared. The Land Rover rocked under the onslaught of terrified beasts banging against the sides. Icy sweat beaded Cat’s face. Her own panic was rising.
Wrestling the wheel, Campbell brought the vehicle parallel with the racing herd. He was calm, his movements sure, and her panic receded. She ached with the effort of keeping away from the door, from being thrown out, crushed. Like Joel, crushed beneath relentless hooves.
She wanted to close her eyes, shut out the sight of tossing heads. The straining corded necks. The ropes of foaming saliva dropping from open mouths. The tangle of massive horns in wild jerking motion only inches away on the other side of the door. But she was riveted, compelled to watch. She thought she screamed, but it could have been in her mind. Nothing could be heard above the storm and pounding hooves.
Suddenly the terrified creatures wheeled. The herd thinned, no longer buffeting the Land Rover.
Campbell stamped on the clutch, twisted the wheel hard. “Christ! Tom’s going to get caught from the side.” He fought the wheel and the Land Rover bounced and skidded. “They’ll tip him over like a toy. We’ll have to turn them.”
Her first thought was the portfolio, a stab of shame hard on its heels as she remembered the women and the child. “How can we? There must be thousands.”
Campbell glanced at her. “Scared?” he shouted.
“Sure!” she shouted back. “You think I’m crazy?”
He laughed. “It’s all right. Trust me.”
Cat snorted in derision, amused this time not caustic, but the sound was lost in the turmoil. He hit the gas, eased the Land Rover back into the stream of panicked, charging beasts. The vehicle bucked, but matched the pace of the wildebeest galloping at full stretch, then gradually the Land Rover began to overtake them.
Cat clung to the metal frame. The Land Rover slammed again and again against the earth. She couldn’t look down
, fearing that she would see the floor buckling, giving way, exposing the ground racing beneath them. Clumps of mud encrusted the windscreen, obscured the light from the doors. Suddenly she was filled with a wild excitement. She wanted to whoop and shout, scream at the storm.
Campbell braked hard, changed down, then slammed to a stop under the upturned roots of an elephant-ravaged tree. Wildebeest hurled themselves blindly, thunderously, across the fallen trunk. He turned, wrenched a rifle from the rack behind him. “Stay here! You’ll be all right. Just stay with the Land Rover. D’you hear me? Stay put.”
“What are you going to do?” She grabbed his arm. “You can’t go out there!”
“Do as I say. Stay here.”
She tried to hold him. He looked at her face, then bent and kissed her. His lips moved against hers—he was saying something but she couldn’t hear him. She put her arms around his neck, trying to hold him, but he tore loose and opened the door against the muddy dripping roots. In an instant the storm had swallowed him.
Cat clambered across the seat, fumbled at the gun rack.
“Come on. Goddamn it, come on.” She sobbed the words. A rifle jerked loose. She threw herself out of the Land Rover, rolled into a mud-filled pocket of space between the wheels and the towering roots. She struggled to her feet, sliding in red gelatinous mud. Wind tore at her. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel.
“Campbell!” she shrieked into the madness of storm and stampede.
Rifle shots answered her. She struggled toward the sound, somehow managing to keep hold of the rifle. Clods of mud from the roots matted her hair. She wiped a hand over her face, across her eyes. Dimly she made him out, his back against the downed trunk of the tree, firing high, over the herd. Animals buffeted him in their wild, leaping gallop—but they were turning away from the gunshots.
A huge bull loomed behind him through the rain.
“Campbell!” She shrieked his name again, slammed the butt of the rifle against her shoulder and fired.