by Linda Ihle
“Why didn’t you shoot it?” Angela asked, moving away from the wall, closer to the fire. “I just don’t understand you.”
“I told you already, I will not kill a snake unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“What kind was it?”
“A black mamba...”
“Oh, my goodness! Are you sure?”
“Ja, I’m sure,” Devin said, turning her back to the fire and sitting down on the wooden floor to face Angela. The fire now provided the only light in room, casting strange leaping ruddy shadows on the peeling walls and boarded windows. “I’ve seen a lot of them and they can be quite aggressive, especially if they feel threatened or cornered and they can move a helluva lot faster than you would want to know. They’re a bit more aggressive than the green mambas – I saw two of them yesterday, or was it the day before yesterday?” She frowned. Now I’m losing track of time. “Whenever it was – they’re beautiful…”
“But, I still don’t understand -- why wouldn’t you kill such a venomous snake?”
“It was no direct threat to you or me. Obviously, if it had attacked me I would’ve shot it, but that would mean using another three rounds. I can’t figure out how to get this damn thing to fire only one round,” she muttered, motioning to the AK-47 where it lay dully glinting in the firelight. “There’s also another thing: If I had killed it and it had a mate, we’d be sitting around wide-eyed all night waiting for that mate to find it, and us. I don’t know whether that’s an old wives’ tale or what, but I don’t want to find out either.”
“I’ve heard that, but it sounds far-fetched.”
“Ja, I’ve heard it too, but I’ve also heard of people who made that mistake. Ended up having to kill two snakes, when they didn’t have to kill one in the first place. And that one had just eaten so it was fairly lethargic.”
“What if it gets in here?”
“Then we deal with it.”
Silence fell, broken only by the spitting and stuttering of sap in the coals and the snap of the dry wood as it succumbed to the flames. Devin sat back against the wall next to the hearth and closed her eyes. An all-consuming weariness assailed her and she felt herself beginning to nod. “Wake me in about half an hour,” she murmured.
“All right.”
She moved closer to the fire and looked up at the mantel where the bats had roosted. They were all gone. She wanted to ask Devin when the bats might have left, but was loath to disturb her. She stared into the flames, watching the green and gold and crimson interact and lick up the sides of the pot, casting waves of white, wet heat. “Oh, Jesus, Lord,” she whispered, “why did I ever come here?” She felt close to tears again and scrubbed viciously at her eyes to fend them off. Her dad and mom would know by now. They would know that she had been at Victoria Falls, taken a flight from there to Kariba, only that flight had never made it and she was not among the escapees. They would grieve. She bowed her head resting it on the tops of her knees and wept silently as she pictured their anguish. Her mother would probably insist upon flying out and her father would demur, telling her to, “Let it be, May, let it be.” But the woman would not rest until she determined what had happened to her child.
Her face streaked with tears, Angela rose and wandered to the front window where a small gap in the boards allowed her to peer out through the filthy pane. From there she could see the base of the baobab which towered above the roof, and a small area around the base of the tree. A waxing three-quarter moon was rising in the east, but she could neither see it nor its light yet. She looked to the east where she had encountered the snake, but all was dark, shadows on shadows. A sudden flash of light in the corner of her left eye caused her to jerk her head back to the baobab again. Nothing moved but the leaves swaying gently in a light breeze. She searched for the source of the light, but found nothing. A cold worm of fear squirmed at the base of her skull, causing her hair to rise and she ran to where Devin slept, propped against the wall.
“Wake up, Devin!” she urged, gently prodding her. “Wake up! Something’s going on.”
Devin raised her head and gazed bleary-eyed up at Angela. “Whassamadda?” she mumbled, then saw the look of stark terror in Angela’s eyes and leaped to her feet. “Is someone here?” she hissed.
“I don’t know!” Angela whispered. “I was looking out the window and I just saw a strange flash of light where the baobab tree is.”
“What colour was it?”
“Colour?”
“Yes, colour!” Devin was becoming more and more exasperated with this woman. “Was it like greenish lightning, or something else?”
“I guess you’re right,” Angela said wonderingly. “It seemed greenish.”
“Ah,” Devin sighed, relaxing her stance. She took Angela’s arm and led her back to the window. “Look back out there again. Tell me if you see it again.”
Angela gaped at her, but complied, putting her face up to the grimy pane, her eyes trained on the area around the tree. Within seconds, she observed at least three more bright flashes of light, almost phosphorescent in their intensity, and, yes, greenish. They appeared above the ground, but seemed to be emanating from the trunk of the tree itself. She gasped. “What is it?” she asked.
“Fairies,” said Devin, matter-of-fact in her belief.
“No, really, I mean what is it?” Angela persisted.
“As I said, fairies,” Devin said. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe in them either?”
Angela stared at her standing there in her grimy underwear, her hair a bird’s nest of knots and dirt and cobwebs, an AK-47 hanging casually from her right hand. This was one strange woman! “Actually,” she ventured cautiously, “I don’t believe in fairies.”
Devin shrugged. “Ja, but you believe in some god manifesting itself in a pillar of fire; angels going up and down Jacob’s ladder, for goodness sake, seriously! A stairway from some place called heaven to earth!”
“Yes, of course, but that’s diff...”
“And you believe in some big, invisible, magic man who created the world in seven days and managed to populate it as it stands now and as it stood at Sodom and Gomorrah, using only two people?” Angela said nothing. Her mouth pursed with distaste. She did not want to get into this particular subject with this particular woman. “Well?” Devin persisted.
“Well, have you ever seen them? And I mean not just their lights,” Angela demanded finally. “They could be lightning bugs?”
“Of course, I have. I’ve seen them here and I’ve seen them on the shores of the Bembezaan River. They’re wonderful!” Devin grinned at her. “And, if you give them half a chance and have faith in their existence, they will allow you to see them too.” She squatted at the fire and raised the lid of the pot. Much of the water had boiled away and now the bird simmered in its own juices. She estimated it would be ready in another half an hour or so, and carefully replaced the lid. “Smells good, hey?” she commented.
“Mmm hmm,” Angela agreed, feeling her mouth water as an old hound dog’s would at the scent of ‘possum stew. “I wish we could have some green vegetables, though. It can’t be that good for us to just eat meat.”
“Ja, I know what you mean,” Devin murmured. “There was an old hibiscus bush around the side of the house. The person who lived here must have planted it. The leaves are edible, but I really don’t feel like looking for it in the dark. Plus, we have starch tonight, milady.” She grinned.
“Yeah, we do! That’s OK. We can look in the morning.”
They sat in silence then, watching the flames, smelling the aroma of the cooking fowl and rhizomes, until Devin determined the meat was ready and pulled the pot out of the fire. They placed the rhizomes on the floor to cool, waited briefly for the meat to cool, then began to pull strips off the carcass, finally pouring about two cups of water over the bones and fat and setting the pot back on the fire, while they gnawed at the bulrush bulbs. Soup would be their dessert.
20.
The interio
r of the old Presbyterian church at the top of the hill on Third Street, where Alamein branched off and up to the Stanley mine, was cool, dark, empty but for Sandra and the caretaker. He pushed a broom across the polished parquet floors in the nave, deliberate and masterful in this his chosen field. He glanced briefly at her and caught her eye. He nodded, the light gleaming on bald black patches, dark islands among cottony white tufts of hair. “Hello, medem, manheru[12],” he greeted her.
“Good evening, Absalom. Maswera sei[13]?” she responded, rising from a kneeling position.
“Ndaswera, tatenda[14], Medem. Is all not well, Medem?” he asked, leaning on his broom, a frown of genuine concern furrowing his amply wrinkled brow. The last time he had seen her here at this time of day, alone and obviously disturbed, was when her father had taken his own life, shot himself in his own bathroom. No-one lived in that house now. He would never forget that – it was scandalous and fodder for much gossip in this very small town. Many times before and many since, he had shaken his head at the strange ways of these mukiwa (whites).
She shook her head and attempted a smile which turned to a grimace. “All is well, Absalom,” she responded lightly, “and how is your daughter?”
He recognized the effort to take the spotlight off her and respected it. “Hau, she is good, Medem, very good,” he said. “She now is head nurse in the maternity ward.” His pride in his oldest daughter who had never married and never borne him any grandchildren gleamed from his old, rheumy eyes.
“That’s wonderful!” Sandra responded as she began to make her way out of the pew where she had been kneeling. If I don’t get away from this old bugger, I’ll be here all night reviewing family records, she thought. “It is a very good thing for you and your family that she has done so well. She is a good, hard-working girl, Absalom.”
“Eh heh, eh heh,” he agreed nodding vigorously. “Fambai zvakanaka (go well), Medem,” he said as she began to make her way out of the church.
“Thank you, Absalom, and you too. Sarai zvakanaka, madala (stay well, old man),” she whispered, giving a slight bow of respect.
“God is good, Medem,” he murmured.
She turned to smile at him before making her way out past the font holding the holy water and down the steps to the cobbled walkway leading up off the street. She cursed them as she attempted to maneuver in her high-heeled shoes over the bumps, but finally made it ankles intact to the sidewalk where her old Morris lurked against the kerb. She climbed in and wiped at the tears on her face and hoped that Absalom had not seen them. Silence and restraint would save her daughter’s life, and so would God, even though Devin did not believe.
21.
The night passed without incident and Devin slept soundly for the first time since the crash. Angela was restless, her mind’s eye constantly returning to the snake, but as dawn approached, she fell into a deep and restful sleep, curled up on the wooden floor, her hands a pillow beneath her head. As the sun rose, the women slumbered on in the dark house. The fire seemed cold, but some coals still glowed beneath the pile of ash. The damp chill of early morning roused Angela first who sat up and stretched, gazing about the twilit room. Devin lay near the fire, her back against the wainscoting, or what remained of it, her mouth closed, but her eyes wide open. She looked dead.
Angela gasped and covered her mouth to prevent the scream lurking there from escaping. Devin’s green eyes were glassy, and she did not appear to be breathing. Angela crawled over to her and reached out a tentative hand, touching the woman’s arm. It was warm. Then she sat for a moment gazing intently at her chest. Finally she was able to make out the almost imperceptible rise and fall. She was breathing. “Oh, thank you, Jesus!” she sighed.
Devin awoke with a start, blinked rapidly a few times, and stared at Angela. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I thought you were dead,” Angela blurted. “Did you know you sleep with your eyes open?”
“Ja,” Devin said, stretching luxuriously. “Gave my old queen a bit of a fright with that one, hey. Confirmed her suspicions about the devil and me.” She laughed and shook her head.
“Well, at the very least you could have warned me!” Angela rose, standing hands on hips, suppressing a grin and staring down at Devin. “I almost died of fright.”
“It’s not something I think about that often. Anyway, I’m alive and well and dying to wee, so what say we get on with our journey?”
“I don’t want to leave this place,” Angela admitted. “I slept pretty good.”
“Well,” said Devin. “You slept well. And I am glad to hear it. Let’s get your socks changed and get out of here. This place is too obvious with smoke rising from the chimney.”
They pulled the old pot off the fire and left it in the hearth. The bats had returned with the dawn and resumed their positions along the mantel. Most had their eyes closed, but one small, charcoal-grey creature swung about, beadily eyeing their every move. Ah, the folly of youth, Devin thought, as she scooped up a handful of the warm ashes off the edge of the hearth. Spitting on her finger, she dipped it into the ash, and used that to clean her teeth. Angela watched this in silence. She decided against saying anything, and merely followed suit. It was a gritty experience, but once she had rinsed her mouth, it felt remarkably clean. In fact, she found she could run her tongue along her teeth and find none of that furry residue that had been there the day before. She emptied the bloody dirt from her sock into the fire, and walked outside to fill the other one.
Devin wandered off around the west side of the baobab to her own toilet, before making her way back around the east side of the house. There under the bathroom window was the old, dusty, white-fly ridden hibiscus, a lone pink flower opening to embrace the warmth of the sun. Bending, she pulled several new leaves off the twigs near the base, then changed her mind about that tactic and broke off several branches. She tied them to the top of her hat, and donned that. “Shit,” she thought, “I’d go down well in Barbados.” Just as Devin completed this task, Angela returned. She took one look at Devin and burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she spluttered, “but I can’t help it - you look positively tropical.”
Devin grinned at her. “Don’t laugh - I’ll be making a hat for you today, and these hibiscus leaves are for eating later today. Man, I’d kill for a loaf of Federman’s Bakery bread!”
“Which way are we going from here, Devin?”
“We’ll keep going south and then more to the east. I want to stay away from the western game reserve and operational areas. Plus, for me, it’s the way home. If I still have a home.” She shrugged as Angela eyed her quizzically. “Long story….soon it’ll start to get more hilly too, and that will make it hard going. I think, within about eighteen, twenty hours of solid, steady walking, we should be closer to north Gokwe. There’s an old kaffir store there, outside the compound, and we can probably get in there after dark and try to make a telephone call.” She noted the affronted look on Angela’s face. “Sorry,” she said, “that’s what they’re called and that’s what I’ve always called them.”
“That is an ugly word,” Angela remarked.
“I agree with you, but I don’t mean it as an insult. It’s just that’s what those stores are called. I don’t know what else to call them. It’s the same as the oranges we ate yesterday. I assume you know what they’re called?” Angela nodded, and Devin shrugged. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Angela abruptly. “Let’s get on with it.” She lifted the kerosene can and stood aside to allow Devin to lead the way. As she did a small, furtive movement in the leafy boughs above her left shoulder caught her attention, accompanied by a muted sound, something like church bells, ringing in some far-off valley. Her head snapped up and she stared into the branches. Dappled shadows danced on the boughs, making her a little dizzy. Finally, she looked away and turned back to find Devin staring at her.
“What’s the matter?” Devin asked.
“Nothing. I just thought I heard something,
” Angela muttered.
“Bells?”
Angela gaped at her. “Yes! How did...?”
“As I said, last night: fairies. Let’s go.” Devin grinned, turned and led the way around the south side of the house and into the long grass.
22.
As mid morning approached, promising the suffocating heat of midday, the women, after climbing for what seemed hours, reached the top of a massive, granite-studded gorge. Far below, a narrow stream, the remains of a once mighty river, reflected the sky. They decided to rest at the top for a short while, then wend their way down to the river bed. Devin climbed a short way down and sat on an ochre boulder, dangling her feet over the edge, and lit a cigarette. Far above them, the contrails of three fighter jets flying in close formation traced a gash of white across the sky. She watched until she heard them, then gazed down at the floor of the gorge. She could not remember this; ever having been here, and a thrill of fear nipped at her gut. She shrugged it off. As long as she kept moving east and a little south, she would be all right. Probably. So long as we came down close to Binga. Hell, I don’t know where we came down, but now we’ve passed Lutope and so it should be the right way.